#though only a snapshot of it

[destructo-range]

The Sacrifice

creds to @axolotl-on-rice for the idea!

also the sketch i lowkey liked more

[asexualbookbird]

since moving down here many people have been raving about a grocery store callrd Dave's and we've spent the last ten years brushing them off because. Yeah whatever. Grocery store. We'll go someday, but Not Today. Well we finally went Monday and yesh it's just A Grocery Store lol

HOWEVER! I impulsively got a small cup of hot chicken and artichoke soup and we've been back twice since trying to find more. With no luck. My mom spent the week looking at various artichoke soup recipes. .ost of them call for cheese which would make it a spinach and artichoke DIP soup which it was NOT! I spent the week thinking hard about it and well.

I think I did pretty darn good :)

[omaskit]

I CANNOT GET OVER HOW COOL FLESHA'S MOVEMENT IS IN THE FINALIE!!

LIKE THE FIGHT??? THE FUCKING FIGHT??? IT'S SO ELEGENT YET JANKY AND SHE"S SO CHILL AND SMILELY IT"S SOOOO CREEEPPPYY!!!! SHE"S SO SURE SHE"S GONNA WIN I CAN"T!!

AND ITS SO ELEGENT!!!! LIKE SHE"S COMPLETLY HIJACKED THIS FLESH VESSEL AND KNOWS HOW TO USE IT!!! IT"S TOO SMOOTH AND ITS SUCH A GOOD CONTRAST TO UZI"S STRONG AND HARD HITTING MOVEMENTS!!!

LIKE UZI HAS NATRUAL JERK AND EVERYTHING SHE DOES IS EITHER A HIT OR RESTABLIZING HERSELF AFTER SHE HitS LIKE I CANT ARTICULATE IT BUT IT"S COOL AS FUCK!!!

WATCH THE FINALIE!! ITS SO MUCH BETTER THAN I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE

[blooming-cecilia]

the wife... shes real.......... and shes with the windblumes windblooms 🫣

[vomitingink]

sketchbook dump

miku on the left was done in newer and better markers than on the right — and also at a later date

[sevenines]

i’m scrolling through the su tag on the wayback machine, saw a familiar artist and choked like these are the ancient people of old times i shouldn’t know any of you

[city-flag-tournament]

hiii pls check out the flag for Bonney Lake, WA. i can only find one size of it online and it's very small which really adds to it.

Truly incredible, especially because I can't find any evidence that this is a seal of the city or anything.

From FOTW:

The flag for the City of Bonney Lake was first developed in 2008 for use in a parade of flags at an annual conference of the Association of Washington Cities held in Yakima, WA. Bonney Lake City Administrator Don Morrison provided input to graphic designers, Matautia Design, of Olympia, WA.

I think this style is quite typical for flags made very impromptu for events like this, I can understand why it doesn't receive much usage, but the fact that it was indeed created by a graphic design firm does heighten my viewing experience.

I find myself particularly entranced, by the inclusion of the "original flag" with the misspelling of incorporated (as "incorperated" -- as it is usually pronounced). I wonder if it's possible to still find these out in the wild...

I find their logo to be much more suitable for the type of low effort logo flag I mentioned earlier, and I think this might actually be what's flying outside of their Justice & Municipal Center

The city website has a similar image on its front page, but the flag is similarly obscured there as well.

[anxiety-lemsbian]

STOP HEADCANONING CELEBRITIES AS CERTAIN SEXUALITIES!! STOP PRETENDING YOU KNOW THEM BETTER THAN THEY KNOW THEMSELVES!!!!

[abyss55199794]

“and as we’re entertained the earth will change under our feet.”

a lyric from ‘paper train’ by so long… partner that, within the album, is about post colonialism and queer rights and whatever else those themes may entail but really works with the state of the world now. i watch videos from 10 years ago and think wow, nothing’s changed. i walk outside and think nothing is different. but also, at the same time, when you watch those videos it is VERY different. We are in such a dissonantly seperate time to what we were only a decade ago but people act the same no matter what era you’re in. its a little easier for me to not over distinguish periods as i’m not on social medias, but people tend to fall into nostalgia traps that simply aren’t true past aesthetic contexts. The paths we walk are the same. the colour grading has changed but we watch the same movie, but your mind filters the older stuff so heavily you don’t remember it was more saturated than it really was.

[ecurai]

Bring Your Daughter To Hell Day with Matriarch J'Ula.

hey maybe next year we can just do like a company-sponsored picnic or something? just a thought

[chplatoon]

The Inkling: the ship

A short story about my inkling discovering Shapeship Cargo ���

The inkling stared silently at the cold sea bubbling almost beneath its feet. Since stepping on board of the Shipshape cargo, the inkling had not say a single word, too absorbed by the grand view this location offered. A crew of turf-war enthusiasts jellyfishes recently opened part of their cargo to host matches for young Splatsville athletes. The stage was now opened for all to play, but this is not what the inkling was here for.

The Recon Guide's instructions were clear: maps could be visited outside of matches with her permission only , visits could last no longer than an hour and were restricted to sport-related reasons. After presenting her splashtag and getting her outfit verified to make sure it was warm enough, the inkling got the all clear for her recon adventure.

When she stepped on the boat, she was first startled by the immense scale of everything around her. Right after, the overwhelming silence and blinding light reflecting on the water washed over her. A crew member on his lunch break must have noticed her hesitation and waved at her from his post. The inkling shyly waved back, thinking about how nice a padded fur hoodie would be right now.

Distracted by this interaction, the inkling quickly made her way forward, looking at every sign it came across to make sure it was not crossing into unauthorized areas. Captivated by its surrounding, the inkling was careful to not put any paint on the ground, firmly grasping its bucket to make sure it would not drip.

After a few minutes of walking, she was drawn by a lower part of the deck that almost descended into the water. As she approached, some sea water splashed in her face, making her wince. Her cheeks were red from the cold and the temperature made her face sting. It felt incredibly different from the regular heat of Splatsville during summer. She carefully sat down on the orange and black danger line. She wondered if that constituted an authorized area.

Slowly, she opened her coat and gently took out her little buddy. Smallfry let out a grateful grunt and bundled up next to her. She knew she would get in trouble for bringing her friend along but she decided sharing this moment was worth it, especially considering that Smallfry seemed to always yearn for the sea.

A while had passed and the duo still have not moved. Smallfry was now asleep, craddled by the sounds of waves and seagulls. His tongue was near frozen, stuck on the cargo's floor. The inkling was still looking at the horizon, hoping her 13 silver scales would be enough for all the new Grizzco employee rewards that were rumored to soon be added to her workplace.

[innerfare]

Nudes - Part 1

Summary: Their favorite nude photo of you.

Characters: Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, Ace, Sabo, Law, Kid

Genre: pure smut

CW: NSFW // nudes (obv), oral sex, light food play with Luffy, unprotected sex with Daddy Zoro, and light cum play with Ace

——— 

Luffy: 

Your naked body with whipped cream is Luffy’s wet dream boat, and the best gift he ever received was a pair of photographs featuring just that. In one of them, you posed with the sweet white substance smeared across your naked chest, all messy and in desperate need of being licked up. And the second, you had a neat trail of it in the shape of a heart just above your naked cunt, ripe for the taking. Needless to say, you had to recreate this little photoshoot with Luffy as soon as he laid eyes on the photographs. 

Zoro: 

He’s an ass man who’s obsessed with creampies, and his absolute favorite snapshot of you is from behind, your pussy flushed and swollen from him pounding into it, his cum dripping out of your little hole, and that pink, heart-shaped plug in your ass. The sight of it makes him salivate, and he usually ends up clutching his cock because the throbbing is actually painful. He’s gotten into many a bar fight after having one too many and pulling it out to stare longingly, only for some creep to gawk over his shoulder at your perfect ass and pussy. 

Sanji: 

You feigned illness one day and waited for the crew to leave you alone aboard the ship before sneaking into the kitchen in your bathrobe and swapping it for Sanji’s apron, snapping a few pictures of yourself wearing it with nothing underneath. One, in particular, turned out quite well, with your tits popping out the top and your hand pulling the bottom half to the side to reveal your naked little slit. That’s the one Sanji keeps in the back of his wallet. 

Ace: 

It’s horrible, really. It’s disgusting. But when he’s away from you, there’s nothing that brings him more pleasure than that photograph he took of you naked on a beach somewhere, his hat on your head and sand in your hair, his cum on your pretty face while you smile up at him and laugh, his hand tilting your chin up. It’s not just how sexy it is, though. You just look so happy, so pretty, and so very his. The photograph serves as a reminder of how much you smile, how happy you get, when he fucks you, and it always leaves him grinning like a fool. 

Sabo: 

He was sitting sprawled on the small sofa in his bedroom, and you were kneeling between his knees, his pretty cock in your hands, your tongue on the head. He had one of his hands tangled in your hair, the other holding the camera. He’d been away for two whole months, and the two of you hadn’t left his room for three full days and nights. It was day two when he took that picture, fresh out of the shower. He’d never seen so many hickies on your skin, had not known just how long the two of you could go until then, and he was determined not to forget. 

Law: 

Law’s a simple man- kinky, but simple. When he found a photograph tucked into his hoodie one day, he didn’t realize what it was at first. There wasn’t a face, just a body, but after a second, he recognized that body. And he recognized the loose t-shirt covering it, sliding off one shoulder and breast, revealing a single pert nipple, a hickey beside it. And the way the hem rode up, he could see you weren’t wearing any panties, though he couldn’t see between your legs with his pillow stuffed between them. The love note scribbled on the back begging him to come home safe only cemented it as one of his most prized possessions. 

Kid: 

He has a couple on the wall in his workshop where anyone could see, though nobody but you, he, and Killer really go in there. By far his favorite one, though, is the first one he ever took, before he even pierced your nipples, before you had even decided to stay on his crew. You were naked on the deck of the Victoria Punk, not posing in a particularly scandalous way, just staring up at the moon while Kid documented your nudity for his own selfish desires. He’d pinned you to the deck and fucked you for the first time after that, and he had a little keepsake from it. 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[prokopetz]

What do you mean that Forgotten Realms is a romantic fantasy setting masquerading as high fantasy?

(With reference to this post there.)

Exactly what it says on the tin – the Forgotten Realms is clearly principally inspired by romantic fantasy, not high fantasy.

In this context, when I say "romantic fantasy", I'm referring to a specific, relatively short-lived genre of fantasy literature that was wildly popular in the 1980s and 1990s, but abruptly fell almost entirely off the map after about 1998, due to a variety of economic and cultural factors which are way too complicated to go into in a Tumblr post. This is distinct from the more contemporary usage of "romance novels with fantasy settings", though there's definitely a lot of overlap.

If you're looking for a romantic fantasy reading list, Mercedes Lackey's Valdemar series – especially the early stuff – is probably the easiest to get your hands on these days; it's practically the only example that still has any real name recognition in 2025, for all that Lackey was a latecomer to the genre. Other names worth checking out include Margaret Ball, Carole Nelson Douglas, Tanya Huff, Holly Lisle, Jennifer Roberson, and Elizabeth Ann Scarborough, off the top of my head, though not all of them worked exclusively within the genre.

(Elizabeth Moon is an interesting edge case, in that her stuff is principally military science fiction, but very much adheres to the forms of romantic fantasy. Her Deed of Paksenarrion trilogy, one of her few pure fantasy works, is a fun snapshot of an era because it was written explicitly in response to what Moon perceived as the shortcomings of the fantasy worldbuilding on display in then-contemporary Dungeons & Dragons settings, and hit the shelves at just about exactly the same time as the earliest Forgotten Realms material.)

[regressionschool]

The Challenge

You’ve worked at Regression School for over a decade. You’ve seen all kinds of Littles—reluctant ones, rebellious ones, even clever manipulators who smiled sweetly and plotted potty escapes the moment your back was turned. But none—none—had ever been quite like Melanie.

She didn’t cry when she was admitted. She didn’t protest during orientation. No, Melanie had stared you down, pacifier clipped neatly to her alphabet-print shirt, and simply stayed silent.

Day one had passed uneventfully. She’d sat quietly through nap time, toddled obediently through the halls in her light-up shoes, and even colored neatly within the lines. But she hadn’t asked for the potty. Not once.

You made a note of it in her chart, just like all the others.

But day two had been… different.

The scene replays in your mind like a snapshot—Melanie in the middle of the reading circle, crinkling just slightly in her training pull-ups, legs crossed daintily and an air of defiance in her every motion. The class was quiet, listening to Miss Jenny read "The Little Bunny’s Big Day", and Melanie had shifted once… then again… and then—

A soft hiss.

You weren’t the only one who noticed. Her pull-ups bloated subtly under her sundress, then darkened. You watched the creeping stain, the slow sag. By the time she stood up, it was clear—too clear.

“Oh no, sweetie,” Miss Jenny had said gently, taking her hand. “Looks like you need a change.”

Melanie’s eyes found you across the room.

It wasn’t an accident. That much was obvious.

She wanted you to see.

There wasn’t embarrassment or shame in them. Only a glint of challenge.

And so, on day three, you did what any seasoned caregiver at Regression School would do when confronted with such behavior—you removed the option for rebellion.

No more training pants. No more pull-ups. Melanie was returned from the changing room swaddled securely in a thick white medical diaper, double-taped at the hips, with a telltale yellow wetness indicator running down the center.

She didn’t say a word about it.

But her eyes found yours again.

Still challenging.

Still daring you.

You called her to your office after lunch. Not because of misbehavior—she’d followed every rule to the letter—but because you needed to understand her. Littles who gave up too easily were boring. Ones who resisted forever were exhausting. But Melanie… she was something else.

The door to your office clicked shut behind her with a quiet finality. Melanie didn’t flinch. She didn’t even glance at the plush pastel posters or the stack of reward stickers lined up like medals on your shelf.

She flopped into the chair across from your desk with practiced ease, legs parting carelessly, the thick white diaper beneath her riding high and proud, crinkling as she settled in.

“Well?” she asked, eyes steady on yours. “Gonna give me another sticker for coloring inside the lines?”

You folded your hands on the desk.

“No,” you replied, voice calm but firm. “That’s not the point. Most Littles need days—sometimes weeks—before they finally let go. They cling to their old habits, clutching at that last shred of potty training like it’s sacred. But you…” You let your eyes travel down briefly to the faint yellow bloom beginning to show on her diaper. “You gave it up from the start.”

Melanie didn’t look away. But the corner of her mouth twitched half amusement, half bitterness.

“So what do you want?” she asked, voice low and cool, though her fingers fidgeted slightly on the soft pink arms of the chair. “A tantrum? Some tears? You won’t get them.”

You leaned back in your seat, studying her.

“Why you’ve surrendered so easily… but still look at me like you're winning.”

That cracked something. A flicker behind her eyes. She sighed and reached up to brush a lock of auburn hair off her cheek, the pacifier bouncing lightly on its clip.

“You think I had a choice?” she said finally. “We both know what Regression School is. No one gets enrolled and leaves with their potty training intact."

“So that’s it, then?” you asked softly, watching her shift again in the chair. “You’re just going to go along with it? Play the perfect Little, as long as you get to pretend you’re still in control?”

Melanie’s eyes sparked again, her lips curling—not sweetly, not submissively, but with a slyness that could cut.

“I never said I was pretending.”

The silence was punctuated only by the quiet hum of the overhead fan. And then—

She shifted her weight with deliberate slowness, planting her feet on either side of the plush chair, knees spread wide. The pacifier on her clip bobbed gently with the motion. Her hands slid to the cushioned arms, steadying herself, and her gaze never left yours.

Then came the sound.

It started soft. A barely audible grunt from Melanie, low and unhurried, followed by a sudden crackle, muffled by layers of thick padding. Her brow furrowed slightly, not in discomfort, but focus. A long, hot breath escaped her lips, and the unmistakable squish and squelch of her diaper filling echoed faintly between the walls.

You watched as the pristine white bulk beneath her dress puffed outward at the back, sagging visibly, discoloring slightly around the edges. The wetness indicator had already begun to blur from yellow to green, but now—now it was joined by a bulging distortion that left no doubt. The smell followed quickly, sweet and sour, familiar.

And Melanie?

She grinned.

“Oops,” she said, voice syrup-sweet and mock-innocent. “Guess I really am settling in.”

You stared at her, half in disbelief and half in awe.

Most Littles hid it the first few times. Curled up, covered their faces, whimpered. But Melanie—Melanie leaned back, legs spread, a fresh mess ballooning softly in the seat of her now thoroughly used diaper, sagging and squishing as she shifted her hips just a little more.

“This what you wanted to see?” she whispered.

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. Because this—this wasn't surrender. It wasn’t defeat.

It was power.

And Melanie knew it.

“Well,” you said finally, rising from your seat and circling your desk slowly. “I think it’s time for a fresh diaper, little one.”

Melanie just smiled wider, utterly unashamed. “Then you better bring the thick ones. I don’t think I’m done yet.”

She wasn’t embarrassed.

She wasn’t broken.

She was in control of this, of you, of the moment.

[msfantasy-comics]

The BatParent Dynamic

Bruce Wayne x Batmum! Reader

Summary: A fluffy story in which Dick and Jason would climb into bed with you and Bruce.

Nothing was more meditative than listening to the muffled sounds of the crickets chirping, as the cold night air filtered though the high ceiling windows. The opposing warmth exuding from your husbands form as he pulls you in closer. Melting around your napping figure.

His airy breath tickling your ear, nuzzling further into your neck.

He’s taking his time, holding you close, breathing in your scent as he presses chaste kisses to your shoulder slowly waking you from your bliss dream into his blissful arms.

Not a single word is spoken, both just enjoying the romantic lul.

But of course, this is the Wayne Manor, where any number of things can happen that leads to loud and rambunctious events.

“Ma! I need a hug!” Dick shouts outside the door, a quick twist of the door nob and the door is slammed open, destroying any sense of peace within your shared bedroom. “Jason is being Jason again!” Dick jumping into a swan dive, aiming to land in the middle of the bed where you and Bruce are currently huddled.

Bruce quickly slides out of the way leaving Dick to land perfecting in the centre of the mattress, he rolls over wrapping his arms around you. Cheek pressing against your arm making his lips press into a pout just like they always did when he was a young boy clinging to you for comfort.

You look down at your eldest son with a warm smile. Eyes almost sparkling at his cute demeanour, even as an adult, Dick will still be your sweet child.

Bruce, however, is feeling other feelings.

“For some silly reason, I assumed that when you boys grew up. You’d finally stop seeking your mothers comfort. In MY bed.” He grumbles irritatedly which only makes Jason’s hulking figure shake with laughter as he takes a quick snapshot of Dick snuggling up to his parents like the man child he is.

“Seriously bro? You go cryin to ma because I wouldn’t share my sandwich with you?” Jason muffles with a mouth full of bread.

He strides towards your bed, stepping up onto the mattress ignoring Bruce’s refusal to move, he shoves himself into the small space left between Dick and the almighty Batman.

Bruce grumbles irritably as he accepts his fate.

Your heart couldn’t help swelling at the sight of your two grown boys, still behaving like the naughty trouble makers.

You still remember a younger Dick, crawling under your sheets so that he could finally sleep though the whole night without being awoken by his nightmares.

Often the young boy would have reoccurring and vivid nightmares about his parents, and would more often then not, come to your bed seeking comforts.

Slinking up the centre between your sleeping forms, Dick would snuggle up towards you as your sleepy arms encircle around Dicks anxious form.

Whilst Jason was already a grown pre-teen when he came into your home. However, when traveling around South-East Asia, Jason caught an aggressive parasite from stagnant water. He was so Ill and weak, you were too nervous and tired to leave him alone, so he slept between you and Bruce until he made a full recovery.

Now you look at your boys, they both lay between you and Bruce, arguing, elbowing and shoving eachother. You look at your husband sweetly, as if silently discussing how this scene warms your heart.

It’s moments like these, you remind yourself how lucky you are to have such a loving family.

[flowersforbucky]

love language

bucky barnes x reader

word count: 6.6k

snapshots of your relationship with bucky told through the five love languages.

“remember, we're madly in love, so it's alright to kiss me anytime you feel like it.”

warnings/tags: smut, oral, unprotected sex, mentions of blood, wound care, brief uses of alcohol, anxiety and self-doubt, language, reader is afab, avenger!reader, fluffier than what i typically write, undercover mission, friends to lovers!!! 18+ only

Acts of Service

“Exciting Friday night?” Your head snaps up at the masculine voice. You nearly slosh hot tea on both yourself and the pages of the book that lay open in your lap. You're surprised to see him - as far as you were aware, Bucky and Sam were in Munich. You didn't think they were supposed to be back in the country for another two days.

“Something like that,” you answer, regaining your composure as you bring the mug to your lips. “What are you doing back so early? Did recon go okay?”

Bucky lets out a long sigh as he plops down into the recliner, adjacent to where you're curled up on the sofa in the compound’s communal living room. His eyelids look heavier than normal, with dark circles underneath that aren't typically present. You place your cup of tea on the end table next to you and close the book before angling your body towards him, giving him your undivided attention.

“It was a shit-show,” he answers bluntly, voice laced with defeat. “HYDRA had the drop on us from the minute we entered Germany. What was supposed to be us just gathering intel turned into an ambush. One minute, it was just the two of us in an old warehouse, and then the next..” he trails off, eyes locked on one of the buttons of his tactical pants that he’s fidgeting with. “We’re lucky to have made it out. Sam was taken to med-bay as soon as we got back. Broken arm and collarbone, dislocated shoulder, possibly a few fractured ribs..” he lists off the injuries.

“Jesus,” you cringe, a death grip on the book in your hands as you listen to him summarize the mission. “Looks like you came out pretty unscathed in comparison.” You glance him over from head to toe, relieved to see no visible wounds or bruises.

“Yeah, well,” he starts, sitting forward and pulling the collar of his black t-shirt over to expose his right shoulder. Your eyes bulge when you see the obvious knife wound that the fabric had been concealing. “Not completely unscathed.”

“Holy shit, Bucky, why didn’t you go get this stitched up?” You stand up quickly, your book falling forgotten to the floor as you step closer to him to inspect the cut. There’s dried blood covering the surrounding skin of his chest and shoulder, with fresh blood still seeping from the opening of the wound. Even with the luxury of the Quinjet, a direct flight from Germany to New York is at least eight hours, who knows how long the cut had been steadily oozing–

“The bleeding has slacked off for the most part at this point,” he tries to assure you, attempting to cover the wound back up with his shirt. His shirt that, upon closer inspection, is thoroughly soaked through with blood. You all but smack his hand away so that you can continue to inspect the cut.

“It’s too deep,” you shake your head. “It needs stitches.”

“It’ll be fine by morning–” he starts to argue with you, but you’re already walking away from him, exiting the room to retrieve a first-aid kit kept in one of the shared bathrooms just down the hallway. Though you can’t currently see him, you have no doubt that he is shaking his head and rolling his eyes at you.

Before returning to the living room, you stop by the kitchen and grab a cold can of Blue Moon to help take the edge off. Upon reentering the living room, you find that he’s hunched over where he sits in the recliner, leaning forward to grab your book from where it had fallen on the rug.

“What were you reading before I so rudely interrupted you?” The corner of his mouth tugs upwards in a smirk as he inspects the cover of the book.

“The Hunger Games,” you answer simply as you place the first-aid kit on the couch and hold out the beer to him. He accepts the drink, a small, surprised smile appearing on his face.

“Shirt,” you instruct a second later, turning to him with a warm, wet rag that you intend to clean some of the dried blood off with. Surprisingly, he obliges your request, placing both the beer and the book in his lap to pull the bloodied fabric over his head.

“And what exactly is The Hunger Games about?” he asks, looking up at you through his thick lashes before turning his attention back to the book in his lap. He flips it over, skimming the words on the back cover.

“The Hunger Games,” you begin as you delicately swipe the damp washcloth across the dirty skin around his wound, watching as the material turns from white to pink as it collects the old blood. “Are dystopian fiction novels. The books get their title from an annual event in which a boy and a girl, ranging from the ages of twelve to eighteen, from twelve different districts are selected by name-drawing to compete in a fight to the death. Twenty-four go into an arena, one comes out.”

“Sheesh,” Bucky grimaces and pops the tab to the beer. You turn away from him, placing the soiled washcloth on the table next to him before retrieving some disinfectant from the kit. “And what’s the point in having a bunch of children kill each other?”

“Punishment and control,” you shrug, pouring some of the clear liquid on a large gauze pad until it’s soaked. He gives you a vague nod, signaling he’s ready for you to clean the wound. You dab the drenched cotton along the opening of the wound, wincing more visibly than Bucky does himself. “The districts where the children are reaped from have had uprisings against the nation’s Capitol in the past. The games are to punish them, as well as to remind them what power the Capitol holds.”

Bucky’s brows furrow together, contemplating your words. You make the initial incision for his stitches and he lets out a grunt of discomfort. “Sorry,” you mumble, concentrating on the stitchwork.

“So what happens?” He asks after a few moments of silence, obviously trying to distract himself from the needle going in and out of his tender flesh as he sips on the amber colored liquid. “The group of kids rebel and take down the Capitol?”

“You’re not too far off,” you chuckle lightly. “I guess you’ll just have to read them for yourself to find out.”

“I suppose I will,” he says, eyeing your needlework from the corner of his eye. “Will you let me borrow your copies when I finish The Lord of the Rings?”

“You’re reading The Lord of the Rings?” you fail at hiding your tone of surprise, more focused on finishing suturing his cut.

“Don’t act so shocked,” he feigns insult. “I read when I have the free time to do so.” He turns his head towards you for the first time since you began stitching, causing you to realize just how close his face is to your own. You push down the fluttery feeling in the pit of your stomach at the close proximity, clearing your throat as you turn to grab a pair of small medical scissors. You clip the thread before backing away from him.

“That should hold you together well enough until your supernatural super-soldier healing abilities take care of it while you sleep.”

He stands from his position in the recliner, holding out your book to you. “Thank you,” he tells you sincerely. “For the stitches, and the beer.”

“Of course,” you say as you take your book back from him. “Don’t want you getting blood all over the compound.”

“I think I’m gonna go check on Sam,” he sighs. “I’ll let you get back to your reading.”

“Get some rest!” you demand as he retreats to the hallway.

“Yes ma’am,” he calls without looking back, his Brooklyn drawl making an appearance.

For the rest of the night, you try to focus on your book and not the way you felt when his plush pink lips and cerulean blue eyes were just inches from your face.

Receiving Gifts

One week later

Punctuality has never been your strong-suit, but you didn’t expect to be the very last person to arrive at Bucky’s birthday party - get together, as he insists on calling it, since he feels silly having a birthday party at over one hundred years old. However, as you’re approaching the pavilion at the compound’s lake, you see that all of your friends are already mingling comfortably.

Natasha, Sharon, and Wanda wave at you from where they lounge next to the bonfire, Steve and Sam are engaged in an intense game of beer pong (which Sam seems to be doing impressively well at, considering one arm is still in a cast and sling), Clint and Bruce are playing cornhole - everyone is here, though you don’t see the one person you came for.

You make your way over to a picnic table closer to the lake that has been dedicated to presents so that you can add yours to the pile. You had ordered the gift a week ago, the same night that you had stitched up Bucky’s shoulder wound, and it arrived just in time - in today's mail, only an hour ago.

Hence the reason you are the last to arrive with a shittily-wrapped present in hand.

“Is that Avengers wrapping paper?” You whirl around at the amused voice to see Bucky walking towards you.

“That it is,” you confirm. “You and I aren't featured, though. Just the OGs,” you shrug, staring down at the cartoon depictions of Steve and the others.

“I was starting to wonder if you weren't going to come.” He says lightheartedly, nodding in the direction of everyone else.

“Your present didn't get delivered until the last minute,” you explain, giving the box-shaped object in your hand a shake. “Didn't want to show up empty handed.”

“You didn't have to get me a gift at all,” he says reassuringly, but eyes the present curiously. “But since you almost missed my party over it, I should open it right away.” He holds his hands out expectantly, almost childlike.

You roll your eyes, handing over the poorly packaged present. You had never been the best at gift-wrapping, usually preferring to reuse bags.

“I did not almost miss your party. It's just now eight o'clock,” you defend yourself, staring at the sun that's just starting to set over the lake's horizon, painting the New York sky in hues of orange and purple.

He smirks, walking past you to place the present on the table. You watch as he rips the wrapping paper away unceremoniously, until the gift is revealed.

“I know you had asked to borrow my copies,” you begin, suddenly feeling nervous as you watch him look over the box set of the first edition of The Hunger Games trilogy. “But my copies are old, and tattered, and have been annotated to shit, so.. I thought maybe you'd like your own,” you shrug nonchalantly.

He studies the box, pulling out the first book and glancing it over with a look you can't quite decipher. There's a faint hint of rose on his cheeks, and the lines around his eyes crinkle when he turns his head to look at you.

“Thank you,” he says with a soft, earnest smile. “This is incredibly thoughtful of you. I'm going to start reading them–”

“This pizza is getting cold!” You hear Sam's voice bellow from under the pavilion a few yards away. “I'm about to dig in with or without the birthday boy.”

You exhale through your nose, a half laugh, half sigh and look at Bucky expectantly. “Pretty sure you're the only birthday boy here.”

“I guess that's my cue,” he sighs as he places the books with the rest of his unopened gifts. “Thanks again, really. It's my favorite gift,” he adds with a sly grin as he begins to walk towards Sam and the table of pizza boxes.

“You haven't even opened the others yet,” you point out, following in his steps.

“Don’t need to open any of the others to know that yours is my favorite.”

Words of Affirmation

Two weeks later

Overstimulated. That's the best word to describe the way you're currently feeling.

Nervous, uncomfortable, irritable, a little hungry, even - any of those words would suffice, too. But with the way the velvet fabric of your dress hugs your hips too tightly, the way that the conversation of the drunk party guests roars in your ears, and the way that the heels of your feet already burn in your platform wedges so early in the evening, you think overstimulated sums up your current state the best.

You fidget with the extravagant ring that adorns your left ring finger, twisting it back and forth and rubbing the pad of your right thumb across the oval-shaped stone.

You aren't even supposed to be here, your brain keeps reminding you. It was supposed to be Natasha. Natasha, who has a boatload of undercover operations experience. But then she had to come down with the flu. Natasha, who never gets sick with anything more than a head cold, bedridden with the flu the day before a highly anticipated undercover mission that you are now taking her place in.

It's not that you hadn't been part of an undercover operation before - you had. You just hadn't been part of any undercover operation that required you to pose as someone's wife before.

Definitely not Bucky's wife.

The two of you had just arrived at the party no more than thirty minutes ago and you had spent the entirety of that time thinking that you wouldn't be able to make this believable; that everyone would see how anxious and awkward you feel and just know - just know that you weren't meant to be here and that it's abundantly clear that you and Bucky aren't actually together.

“Ivanov just arrived,” Bucky's voice murmurs next to your ear as he walks up behind you, snapping you out of your self-doubt induced trance. His left hand, disguised using nano-tech to look like a human, flesh hand, comes to rest against the small of your back and his right hand extends the drink that he retrieved for you from the bar.

“How'd you know I like lemon drops?” You ask, instantly recognizing the pale yellow liquid in the martini glass.

“I'm your husband. It's part of my job to know your go-to cocktail,” he smirks, looking at you in a way that almost makes you believe his words. “Besides, I'd know your drink of choice anyway. You always order a lemon drop.”

You clear your throat, breaking his stare by checking out the fellow attendees and event staff filtering through the ballroom. You slowly sip the sour liquid, trying to focus on the burn of the vodka and not the heat radiating across the skin of your back from him simply resting his fingers against the material of your dress.

“So where's Ivanov?” you break the tension. The illegal arms dealer that you'd been assigned to spy on was nowhere to be seen.

“He should be showing his face any minute now,” Bucky answers, a hint of displeasure in his voice. “I overheard some men at the bar saying he had just arrived in a three million dollar Bugatti with his twenty year old girlfriend.” You visibly cringe at the numbers. Ivanov had to be approaching senior citizen status at this point.

“Can't say that I'd expect anything else from him,” you sigh, attempting to wipe the disgust from your features. “What’s our game plan from here? Hover close by him and listen in on conversations–”

“Dance with me,” Bucky interrupts, his eyes locked on something on the opposite side of the room. You follow his gaze, realizing that Ivanov has entered with his exceptionally youthful girlfriend on his arm. Bucky extends his own arm to you, which you accept after tossing back the last sip of your drink and setting the empty glass on a table behind you.

He guides you to the center of the dance floor where several other couples are swaying to classical piano music. Ivanov mingles with a small group of questionable looking men just a few feet behind you, where Bucky is able to keep an eye on him.

He places one hand on your waist, using the other to hold one of yours in his own as he begins to slowly sway both of you to the rhythm of the music. Your free hand rests on the back of his neck, where you nervously twirl a tuft of his hair between your perfectly manicured fingers (you tried not to take too much offense to Sharon rushing you to the first salon she could find yesterday to help you look the part).

Bucky huffs a low laugh before using his grip on your hip to tug you closer to him, closing an awkward amount of space that separates your chest from his.

“If we want this to be believable, you’re gonna have to act like you kind of like me,” he murmurs lowly so that no one near you overhears. His face is just inches from yours - the scent of sandalwood from his aftershave and spearmint from his mouthwash is dizzying. Add in the fact that the lemon drop you had just quickly downed was heavy on the vodka, it’s a miracle that you’re still standing upright in these ridiculous heels that Sharon had picked out for you.

“I do like you,” you huff, your cheeks warming. “Not liking you isn’t the problem.” His gaze shifts away from where Ivanov stands a few yards behind you and down to your face.

“What is the problem then?”

You stare at his hand that holds yours, your eyes fixated on the brilliant diamond of your faux wedding ring. “For starters, I don’t really know how to slow dance,” you half-mumble. As if on cue, your left ankle shifts ever so slightly in your shoe, causing you to wobble. Bucky tightens his grasp on both your waist and hand to help steady you. He cackles - loudly enough for an old lady walking by to give him a side-eye.

“I think it’s pretty unlikely that our cover gets blown because you’re a little unsteady,” he whispers reassuringly. It does little to ease the lump of anxiety that has settled in your gut.

“It’s not just my lack of dancing experience,” you retort. “It’s all of this. I’m a bit out of my element here and I can’t help but feel like Natasha would have been able to do a much better–”

“Hey, hey,” he soothes, beginning to massage his thumb over the skin of your hand in languid, circular motions. You can’t decide if it’s the effects of the alcohol coursing through your veins or if it’s just the fact that it’s him, but it feels as though there’s a continuous trail of hot sparks everywhere his skin touches yours. “You've got this. If anyone’s got this, it's you. You've handled missions far more daunting than this with ease, right?”

You finally shift your eyes to meet his gaze. His deep blue eyes bore into yours with utmost sincerity. You give him a small nod of agreement and a tight-lipped, uncertain smile.

He leans in closer so that his mouth hovers just next to your ear, his warm breath raising goosebumps down the expanse of your neck and shoulders.

“And remember, we're madly in love, so it's alright to kiss me anytime you feel like it.”

The slow, gentle swaying motions you'd been forcing your body to perform come to a sudden halt. You look at Bucky as if he's grown a second head. He’s looking at you with a shit-eating grin spread from ear to ear.

“Did you just quote Peeta Mellark?”

“I finished up the first book yesterday,” he shrugs as if his words hadn't just made your heart skip several beats. “Now let's get this job over with so we can go discuss the book in detail over some greasy diner food, yeah?”

Quality Time

The mere thought of getting the fuck out of that giant estate and away from Ivanov and the other countless skeevy party-goers to gorge on greasy diner food was more than enough motivation to get you through the duration of the mission.

Of course, it helped that Ivanov is a lightweight drunk with no concept of volume control. After a couple drinks, he handed the location of his next illegal arms deal to you and Bucky on a silver platter - without ever even noticing the two of you dancing just feet away from him.

“I'm sending the audio recording over to you right now,” Bucky says as he types on his cell phone. The two of you are currently in a drugstore parking lot half an hour away from the estate, sitting in the Audi SUV that you'd been given for this evening’s mission.

“Got it,” Sam’s voice booms through the car’s Bluetooth speakers a second later. “You guys did great back there. Go ahead and get back to the compound for debriefing.”

Your eyes flash to the time on the vehicle's touchscreen display - 10:06 pm. You can feel your stomach churning from hunger and your skin itching to get out of the restrictive velvet fabric, the last thing you wanted to do at this hour was go to a fucking debriefing.

“About that..” Bucky starts, noticing your disappointed expression and tense posture. “Debriefing is going to have to wait until the morning.”

“We should really get any details while they are still fresh–”

“What’s that? Sam? Sorry, you're breaking up, can't understand what you're–”

Bucky's flesh finger touches a button on the digital display screen and the call disconnects before he finishes his sentence.

“You know he's going to call back any second, right?” You ask after a moment of loaded silence. Bucky says nothing at first. You watch as he powers off his phone, and then grabs yours from its location in the center cup holder and powers it off, as well.

“I fully anticipate him trying,” he answers as he puts the car in reverse and peels out of the nearly vacant parking lot. “But I promised you a potentially gut-rotting meal, and I'm going to keep that promise.”

Half an hour later, you and Bucky sit opposite each other in a cozy, corner booth of the only open diner in a five mile radius. It's half diner, half arcade, and the two of you are some of the only people here save for the teenage couple making out next to the jukebox in the gaming area. You both look out of place - him in his black satin suit and you in your burgundy colored dress with the thigh-slit, but you're too relieved to be eating to care.

He's already scarfed down a fried chicken sandwich and is rapidly making his way through a pile of mozzarella sticks. You're eating a fat stack of blueberry pancakes and the best loaded hash browns that you think you've ever had.

Breakfast foods hit different at eleven o'clock at night.

“I'm just saying, Katniss is kind of oblivious,” Bucky shrugs with a mouthful of fried cheese. “It's obvious that Peeta was never just pretending to be in love with her.”

“That's a big assumption coming from someone who hasn't even started the second book yet,” you say as you fork a bite of pancake into your mouth.

He throws his hands up in mock defense, covering his now empty plate up with a dirty napkin.

“You're not wrong though,” you admit. “She did miss a lot of signs, and she's not always the most reliable narrator.”

He responds with a small hum as he watches you finish your pancakes with a soft smile that shows his laugh lines and the dimple of his left cheek.

His smile turns to something more curious as the young couple who had been making out in the arcade room earlier dashes past your booth and out the back door of the restaurant.

“What is it?” You ask, pushing your empty plate towards the center of the table.

“The game room is free now,” he states, as if it's obvious. “Now I can kick your ass in air hockey.”

And kick your ass in air hockey he does. And skee ball, and Dance Dance revolution.

“Please don't tell Natasha that you beat me at Dance Dance Revolution,” you beg him as you pick up your high heels that you had discarded for the game. “She'll never let me live that one down. In fact, if anyone asks, it was a dead tie for all of these games.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” he chuckles, approaching the pool table in the center of the room and leaning against the edge. “As long as you win this game of pool.”

“No, nope, absolutely not,” you freeze where you're standing, crossing your arms over your chest. “If I couldn't beat you at air hockey then I don't stand a chance of beating you at pool.”

He ignores you, instead turning to choose two cue sticks from the selection on the back wall. He tosses one to you from several feet away, which you instinctively drop your shoes to the floor to catch.

“I haven't even tried to play pool since I was maybe ten years old,” you whine.

“Why were you trying to play pool at ten years old?” he chuckles, gathering up all of the balls and placing them inside the triangular rack in the center of the table.

“It was at a birthday party,” you admit. “I pretended to know what I was doing to impress a boy that I had a crush on.”

“And how did that go for you?” He removes the triangle-shaped container from around the balls and begins to line up his shot.

“Well, I haven't tried to play pool since then,” you begin, taking a seat on the edge of the table and turning your head to watch him. He pulls the cue stick back and quickly stabs it forward, breaking the balls apart and sending them rolling in various directions across the felt table. “And Kyle from my fourth grade class thought that I had cooties, so, you tell me how you think that went for me.”

“Sounds like it was Kyle's loss.” You watch as he walks to one of the table's pockets to look inside. “I've got stripes,” he states, looking at you with an expectant smile.

You exhale a dramatic sigh, hopping off the edge of the table and turning around to position your stick in front of the cue ball.

“Fine,” you relent, looking up at him from where you're leaning over across the table. “But you're not allowed to laugh at me when you realize I wasn't lying about having no experience at this.”

“Scout's honor,” he swears and you can tell by his smile and reddened cheeks that he’s already trying to contain his laughter.

Feeling extra nervous due to the way you can physically feel him watching you, you take an embarrassing amount of time working up the courage to propel the tip of the cue stick towards a solid purple colored ball.

It travels a foot or so across the green felt material of the table and comes to a stop just inches away from a corner pocket.

“Damn it,” you sigh under your breath.

“That wasn't too bad, actually,” he says, not even trying to conceal his tone of surprise as he walks over to where you're standing. “You just need to change your stance a little and hit the ball a bit harder.”

“So, do basically everything differently, then?”

“I can help you, if you want,” he offers with a smug grin.

“Hm,” you bite your lip as you pretend to contemplate the proposition. “Okay,” you accept with a shrug. “But this better not be an attempt to pull a cliche “pretend to help her with pool as an excuse to make a move” kind of move.” You're fully joking - you know Bucky well enough to know he wouldn't make such a corny, obvious move with anyone - and you definitely wouldn't expect him to do so with you.

But you don't miss the way his expression darkens ever so slightly and his eyes sweep up your figure before moving to stand behind you, propping his own cue stick up against the table.

The front of your thighs brush up against the edge of the table and Bucky’s arms enclose you on either side - his hands coming to rest next to each of your legs on the table's edge, as close as they can be to you without actually touching.

Your breath hitches in your throat when the silky material of his suit brushes against your bare shoulders, the sensation causing you to go deadly still as you await his next move.

“With how fast your heart is beating right now, I don't think I would have to do something as cheesy as that to make a move.” He murmurs, his mouth close enough to the exposed skin of your neck that you can feel the heat of his breath. It's an automatic response, the way your head tilts back into his touch. You start to pull away, start to feel embarrassed, start to tell him just how wrong he is, when he brings a flesh finger to the ball of your shoulder and trails his index finger down the skin of your arm, eliciting a surge of goosebumps in its wake.

This physical reaction doesn't go unnoticed by him, either. He hums a small laugh, inching closer to you so that his body presses against your ass.

“In fact,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “I think that if I wanted to, I could have you bent over this table for me without having to resort to anything like that.”

If his chest wasn't pinning you between him and the pool table, you probably would have fallen over. The air in the arcade feels a sudden ten degrees warmer and you swear you can hear your blood pumping in your ears - things that unfortunately can't be blamed on the effects of the martini that had dissipated from your system hours ago.

No, it's all him. His closeness, his warmth, his voice, his scent. Just him.

“If you wanted to, yeah?” You question, your voice an octave higher than you ideally would have liked. “That makes it sound like you don't want to. But the bulge I'm feeling from your pants makes it seem like you do want to. Kinda sending me mixed signals here.” You rut back against him for good measure.

He hisses next to your ear, his hands snapping to your hips, effectively stilling you beneath him. His fingers dig into the flesh around your hip bones, the pressure somewhere perfectly between uncomfortable and pleasurable.

“Here? Bent over this table?” he tuts, his lips grazing the skin next to the shoulder strap of your dress. “Where a couple of unsuspecting teenagers could walk in for a game of skee ball at any second?” He lets out a low laugh, the sound vibrating against your back.

“No, I don't think so,” he continues. “Not when we've got a brand new Audi with a spacious backseat and highly tinted windows just outside this building.”

Physical Touch

If someone had asked you six hours ago if you thought there was a chance you would be ending this night by having sex with Bucky Barnes, you would have said no.

But if someone had asked you if you thought there was a chance you would be having sex with Bucky Barnes in the backseat of a car in a diner-arcade combo parking lot, you would have said fuck no.

You would have been wrong on both accounts. And with the way that he's nipping and sucking up the insides of your thighs, you're pretty fucking okay with that.

Your dress is bunched up around your waist, your panties discarded on the floor of the car. You're laying as comfortably as you can across the backseat with Bucky nestled snuggly between your legs. It's a tight fit, and the stagnant air inside the Audi is balmy, but you'll be damned if you interrupt this to turn the AC on. The only light inside the vehicle is from the glow of the full moon that illuminates the sky, and the giant neon green diner sign a few yards away from where you're parked.

He's not wasting any time - it's well past midnight at this point and considering the fact that Bucky turned your cell phones off hours ago, you're surprised that Sam hasn't traced the location of the vehicle and sent search and rescue already.

As soon as his mouth makes contact with your center, you’re lacing your fingers through his short, soft locks and tugging on them. You grind your pussy against his face, meeting his fervent motions with your own. He locks his lips around your clit before pulling away with an obscene, wet pop that echoes through the cab of the car.

He reaches one hand up to your shoulders while keeping his lips on you, quickly tugging down the spaghetti straps of your dress and then pawing at the fabric covering your chest to free your tits.

At the same time that he plunges his tongue inside you, he rolls a nipple between two of his cool, metal digits, yearning a sharp yelp from you. He releases his grip and then palms your breast in his hand, continuing to work your folds with his lips and tongue.

You don't know if it's the fact that it's been a ridiculous amount of time since you so much as kissed someone or the fact that Bucky eats pussy like he's starving, but you're approaching your climax insanely fast.

You clench your thighs around his ears and push your hips upwards, the friction building that warm tension in your lower belly that comes spilling over when he lets out a guttural moan across your core.

You cum against his face, feeling your juices drip down the insides of your thighs - there's a pesky voice in the back of your head telling you that you're going to have to pay to have this car detailed before giving it back.

He sits up, his back resting against the middle of the leather seat. He unbuttons and unzips his suit pants, raising off the seat just enough to tug them down to mid-thigh along with his boxers. You're still coming down from your orgasm when he's pulling you up from the seat and into a sitting position.

You tuck your legs underneath you so that you're propped up on your knees on the seat directly next to him. Bucky pumps himself in his hand as you lean over, gathering all of the saliva in your mouth and letting it slide between your lips and over the head of his cock.

You push his hand away to replace it with your own, using your spit as lubrication as you stroke him up and down. He throws his head back against the headrest, looking up at the roof of the car as he brings his hand around the curve of your ass, flesh hand finding your pussy that's still throbbing from how hard he had made you cum.

You can feel the smooth band of the engagement ring that you'd been wearing all evening repeatedly caress a large vein on the side of his dick - you remove your hand from him, causing him to snap his head back down to look at you. You bring your other hand to remove the ring from your finger, planning to tuck it into a cup holder for safekeeping while you use your hands on him.

“Leave it on,” he breaks the thick silence when he realizes what you're doing. “Want you to keep wearing it.”

You push the ring back down on your finger, his command sending a fresh wave of arousal to your core. You're extending your hand back to his cock when he cuts you off, pulling you to him and across his lap.

You straddle him, his erection locked between your pussy lips and his lower belly. You move forwards, and then backwards - earning another deep groan from him as you coat the underbelly of his cock in your juices. You grind up and down against him several times, until you're feeling impossibly empty and can't take the feeling of not having him inside you any longer.

You lift yourself up on the balls of your feet, high enough for him to guide himself to your entrance. He teases your hole with his head - or at least tries to, before you're sinking yourself down onto his length. You go still for a moment when he's fully inside you, giving you both time to adjust to the new, overwhelming sensation of each other.

You begin to ride him, slowly at first - he stretches you blissfully sweet and soon you're picking up the pace, your ass bouncing off of his thighs with each comedown.

He places a hand on the back of your neck, pulling your face down to his in a sloppy, searing kiss. It hits you that he's inside you raw right now, and you're just now kissing. You taste yourself on him, warm and salty sweet. He sweeps his tongue along your bottom lip and you open up for him, letting him explore your mouth from the perfect angle that he's at beneath you.

He continues to kiss you but removes his hand from the back of your neck, moving both of them to cup your ass. He begins to meet your movements with his own, thrusting himself upwards so that his cock is ramming into that sweet spot of your cervix and sending you towards a second climax.

“Feel so fuckin’ good,” you moan into his mouth, breaking the kiss for air. Your encouragement spurs him on, increasing the speed of his thrusts. Your legs turn to jelly beneath you, but he's got you - he holds you up by your ass cheeks and leans forward to take one of your nipples in his warm mouth.

It's enough to send you over the edge again. Your orgasm builds, heat exploding through your abdomen as his movements grow erratic and he spills into you from below.

He stills beneath you when you're both spent, your chest heaving against his. You make no effort to remove yourself from him, and he seems more than happy to keep you right where you are - his arms locking around your waist and pulling you close to him.

“I guess now would be as good of a time as any to ask you if you'd like to go on a date with me sometime?”

“Go on a date with you sometime?” You lean back, looking down with him with the limited amount of moonlight and neon lighting that breaks through the tinted windows. “We dressed up real nice, slow danced, spied on a bad guy, ate greasy diner food, played arcade games, and you're inside me as we speak. I think it's safe to say we're currently on a date.”

He snorts, breaking into laughter beneath you. “A second date, then,” he concedes. “I would love to take you on a second date.”

♡♡♡♡♡

thank you for reading!!! kind of nervous to put this one out there tbh, i've been working on it off and on for weeks but i love how it turned out and i hope you all do too. as always comments and reblogs are very appreciated 💕

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