tweedcola - Tumblr blog

tweedcola · 5 days ago

Text

saw this tweet and got inspired that i wrote it at 3 am in the morning before going to bed, lol (insomnia my old friend).

warnings/tags: 2.1k words, soft!bucky, fem!reader, smut, soft sex, oral (f!receiving), fingering, unprotected piv, creampie, mention of brushing hair from face, aftercare (that gets interrupted by a certain little kitty)

You’re sprawled on the living room floor, arms tucked behind your head, watching Bucky knock out push-ups like it’s nothing. His hair is half-tied, sweat clinging to his neck, and every time he dips low above you, he presses a quick kiss to your lips.

“Twenty-seven,” he murmurs against your mouth. Another peck. “Twenty-eight.”

You try to keep still, to be good, but it’s hard when he’s hovering over you like that—shirtless, muscles flexing, eyes flicking down to your lips every few seconds like he’s starving. You arch a brow. “Are you actually counting or just making out with me between sets?”

His grin is unfair. “Multitasking.”

You roll your eyes. “Uh-huh.”

“Twenty-nine.” This time the kiss lingers—soft and warm and just a little bit… distracted. His lips move against yours like he’s forgetting the workout altogether, his body lowering a touch too far as his chest brushes yours.

Then, without warning, your hands slide up to grab his shoulders, pulling him down fully until he collapses over you with a huff of laughter.

“Hey,” he says, voice muffled as he nuzzles into your neck, “you’re interrupting my form.”

“Maybe I wanted a longer kiss,” you mutter, already trailing your fingers through the damp strands at his nape. “Sue me.”

His chuckle rumbles against your collarbone. “Gotta finish my reps, baby.”

You tilt your head, letting your lips skim his jaw. “Then consider this your new set.”

That does it.

He shifts, one metal hand bracing by your head, the other sliding down your side until his fingers grip your thigh. He parts your legs with his knee slowly, deliberately, slotting himself between them as his mouth finds yours again—deeper now, slower. Hungrier.

Your breath catches, your fingers tightening in his hair.

“Still multitasking?” you whisper against his lips.

Bucky smirks. “Not anymore.”

His mouth was warm on yours again, slow and deep this time, his tongue teasing at the seam until you opened for him with a sigh. Your fingers slipped under the band of his shorts, nails dragging gently over the curve of his lower back, the skin hot and damp with sweat.

"Fuck," Bucky murmured into your mouth. "This is a way better workout."

You laughed softly, but the sound caught in your throat when he rolled his hips down against yours—slow, measured pressure that made your breath hitch and your thighs tighten around him instinctively. You weren’t wearing much, just your sleep shorts and an old tank top, and he… he was hard.

Very.

"Jesus, Buck—"

"Mmh. That’s what happens when you lie under me bein’ all cute ‘n kissable." He mouthed along your jawline, his voice honeyed and rough. "You think I’m made of steel, baby?"

"Parts of you, maybe," you teased, rocking up against him. That earned you a low groan, and the sound raked straight through your core.

"Keep that up and I’m gonna fuck you right here on the yoga mat."

"Promises, promises," you breathed, pulling his mouth back to yours.

Bucky shifted, kneeling between your legs just enough to drag your shorts down, the fabric catching slightly on your thighs before he peeled them off entirely. His gaze dropped, metal fingers brushing down the curve of your inner thigh, warm and reverent.

"Goddamn," he muttered, like it physically hurt to look at you. "You’re fuckin’ soaked already."

"Wonder why," you whispered, hips lifting toward him in offering.

He didn’t dive in. Not yet. He leaned down again, pressing kisses along your belly, your hip, the inside of your thigh like he was trying to memorize the map of you. Then his mouth reached your cunt, and the first warm flick of his tongue made you arch off the mat.

"Ah—f-fuck, Bucky—"

"Shhh." He pressed your thighs open with both hands, slow and firm, tongue curling just enough to drag a ragged little moan from your throat. "I got you."

The strokes of his tongue were gentle at first—just long, unhurried laps that made your muscles twitch. But then he sucked, just once, right over your clit, and you damn near came off the floor.

"Bucky!" you gasped, one hand flying to his hair.

He groaned low at the sound of his name on your lips like that, like it meant something. Like you couldn’t help it. His tongue flattened against you again, slower now, savoring every twitch of your hips beneath him. You tugged at his hair—half encouragement, half desperation—and he smiled against your skin.

“That good, sweetheart?” he murmured, lips brushing your inner thigh.

You nodded, too breathless to speak, hips already chasing after his mouth when he pulled back just slightly to look up at you. Your chest was heaving, tank top twisted and barely covering you now, eyes glassy and dazed with want. He could’ve stared at you like that forever—completely undone for him.

“Jesus,” he whispered, almost reverent. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this.”

Then he ducked his head again. This time his tongue moved with purpose, working tight circles around your clit while his fingers slid up to tease at your entrance. You moaned when he pushed one inside, then two, stretching you slowly, curling just right until your back arched off the mat.

“B-Bucky—oh my god—”

“I know, baby,” he crooned. “I know. Feels good, huh?”

He fucked you with his fingers, steady and gentle, mouth never leaving your clit. You were soaked—slick and pulsing around him—and when your legs started to tremble on either side of his head, he only doubled down.

“C’mon, give it to me,” he whispered hoarsely. “Wanna feel you come on my fingers.”

Your release crashed over you moments later, your thighs squeezing around his head as you cried out his name. He kept going through it, coaxing every last tremble and twitch from you until your hand tugged at his hair again in a half-sob, overwhelmed.

He finally pulled back, lips slick, eyes dark with adoration.

“Hi,” he said softly, crawling up your body and pressing a sweet kiss to your cheek, then your lips. You could taste yourself on his tongue and it only made you whimper.

“Hi,” you breathed back, still trembling a little. “That was… not a push-up.”

He laughed, a warm rumble against your chest as he pulled you into his arms, cradling you like you were breakable.

“Nope,” he agreed. “That was cardio.”

You buried your face in his neck, giggling breathlessly. “God, I love your workouts.”

“Yeah?” he grinned, nudging your nose with his. “Good. ‘Cause I’m nowhere near done with my sets.”

You were still trying to catch your breath when he hooked an arm under your thigh and shifted—rolling his hips against you again, cock heavy and throbbing against your sensitive center. Even through the fabric of his shorts, the pressure made your body jolt with aftershocks.

“Bucky—” you breathed, voice catching. “Too soon…”

He kissed the corner of your mouth, slow and sweet. “Then let me be gentle, sweetheart.”

You didn’t have the strength to argue—not when he pulled back just far enough to shove his shorts down, revealing the thick line of him, flushed and dripping at the tip. He stroked himself once, then again, groaning low in his throat as he looked at you. Legs still spread, body flushed and trembling, eyes locked on him like he was something holy.

“Look at you,” he murmured, almost like it hurt. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty it makes me stupid.”

You cupped his jaw, thumb brushing along the stubble on his cheek. “Then come be stupid with me.”

That broke him. He lined himself up, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, slow and teasing until you whimpered and lifted your hips in a silent plea. Bucky groaned at the sound, bending down to kiss you as he started to push in—inch by inch, filling you until you gasped into his mouth.

“Shit, baby,” he hissed, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re so warm… always so tight f’me.”

He moved carefully at first, rocking his hips in smooth, shallow thrusts as he kissed you—your mouth, your cheek, the tip of your nose. Everything about him was overwhelming in the best way: the stretch, the heat, the love in his eyes as he watched your body take him.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in, needing him close—all of him. His chest pressed against yours, heartbeat pounding through both your bodies as he began to move a little faster, a little deeper, letting the rhythm build naturally.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Feels so good, Bucky…”

“I know, baby.” His voice was rough and low, but gentle. “You’re doin’ so good for me. Always so perfect.”

Each thrust made your toes curl, the way he filled you just right—just enough pressure, just enough drag. He kept one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your thigh to anchor himself as he rocked into you, slow and worshipful.

“I love you,” you whispered.

That did something to him. His movements faltered for half a second, and then his mouth was everywhere—your jaw, your neck, the hollow of your throat—as he thrust deeper, groaning like he couldn’t bear to hold back anymore.

“I love you too,” he gasped against your skin. “So fuckin’ much, baby—don’t even know what to do with it.”

You were close again, the pressure building so sweetly it almost hurt. Your nails dug into his back, your breath coming in gasps, and Bucky felt it—knew it.

“That’s it,” he panted, lips brushing your cheek. “Let go for me. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

You came with a shuddering cry, clinging to him as he held you through it, whispering soft praises into your ear. A few more thrusts and he followed with a low, broken groan, burying himself deep as his release spilled inside you, warm and pulsing.

Bucky didn’t move for a while, just breathed with you—your heartbeats slowly syncing in the warm silence of the living room. The yoga mat was definitely not meant for sex, but the way his body covered yours, keeping you grounded and safe, made everything else irrelevant.

Eventually, he shifted just enough to look at you, brushing the damp hair back from your face with gentle fingers. “You okay, doll?”

You nodded sleepily, your legs still loosely wrapped around his waist. “Mmm. Might be dead, actually.”

He chuckled, nose brushing yours. “You’re not dead. You’re just well-exercised.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled, but you were grinning. “Your definition of cardio is criminal.”

He kissed your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. “C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You whined when he pulled out, hips twitching at the loss of warmth. He soothed you with another kiss, this one soft and lingering, before standing—naked and shameless as ever—and offering you his hand.

You took it with a dramatic groan. “If I can’t walk, I’m blaming you.”

“You say that like it’s a threat,” he smirked, helping you upright and into his arms. He didn’t even bother grabbing your shorts—just scooped you up bridal-style and padded down the hall toward the bathroom like you weighed nothing.

“Show-off,” you muttered, resting your head against his shoulder.

He just hummed and pressed a kiss to your hair.

The bath was quick, lazy, and full of sleepy kisses and wandering hands—but no more than that. He washed you gently, careful with every touch, even when you teased him for the way he cooed over your sore thighs. He even gave your forehead a little kiss after toweling you off.

“Such a sap,” you whispered, smiling into his chest as he wrapped you in one of his old T-shirts.

“Only for you,” he murmured, his voice low and sweet.

Back in the living room, Bucky tossed the rumpled yoga mat aside and collapsed onto the couch with you on top of him, arms wrapped securely around your waist. You nestled against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, your fingers tracing the faint line of a scar near his collarbone.

Just when you were about to fall asleep, a soft meow broke the peace.

You cracked one eye open. “No.”

But it was too late.

Alpine jumped delicately up onto the couch, tail flicking, and immediately made her way across Bucky’s stomach like it was her designated nap zone.

“Alpine,” Bucky said, voice full of fake betrayal, “I just had her, baby, c’mon…”

Alpine responded by kneading into his abs and curling up in the most inconvenient position possible—smack between the two of you.

“She’s jealous,” you said sleepily, reaching over to scratch behind her ear. “You ignored her during your little cardio routine.”

“I was a little busy.”

“She doesn’t care.”

Bucky sighed dramatically, stroking Alpine’s back with one hand while the other curled tighter around your waist.

“Fine. Family cuddles it is.”

You smiled and nuzzled into his neck. “Best set yet.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky smut #love this

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tweedcola · 7 days ago

Text

Five Dollars and a Hook

Pairing: Cecaelia! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Tags: 18+ only. Established relationship. Fluff. Smut

Summary: Bucky navigates the impulse of being a provider, struggling with the rules of the human world.

Word Count: About 7.3k.

note: Follow-up/Side story of Tangled.

Almost a full year had passed since she moved into the coastal cottage. The sea had watched over every season with its endless tide, but now the sun was lower, the breeze cooler, and the first copper leaves had started to gather at the corners of her porch. Autumn was around the corner.

Summer hadn’t been kind to Bucky.

It wasn’t just the heat -though he grumbled about that too- but the crowds. That year, the coast had seen more tourists than usual, loud and unfamiliar bodies spilling into the sleepy town like waves. Bucky had kept to himself more, either hiding away in the deeper parts of the cove or spending time at her home when he was done with the noise and the smells.

Sometimes he'd lean against her kitchen counter with a glass of ice pressed to his wrist, watching her cook like the smell of garlic hypnotized him. Other days, he’d stretch out on her rug under the ceiling fan, arms behind his head, the long line of his body still betraying something briny and feral.

On quieter evenings, he would join her in the shallows, his human half visible while the rest of him lingered in the water, eyes tracking every movement on the beach like a sentry. Even in his more generous moods, he scowled at the thrum of speakers echoing from open car trunks, at the barking laughter of people who didn't belong there.

She tried not to laugh when he muttered curses under his breath about "landwalkers" and their inability to respect a nesting ground.

In late July, during the worst heatwave, she introduced him to ice cream. It was one of the rare things he didn’t question, no sniffing, no wary prodding. He just accepted the cone.

He bit too much off the top, of course.

The freeze hit his palate, and his eyes went wide, as his jaw worked slowly like he was trying to decode the sensation. She’d nearly dropped her own cone laughing. He didn’t speak for a full minute, just stared at the melting vanilla dripping over his knuckles like it was some small, personal miracle.

"You're meant to savor it," she’d said, breathless with amusement.

After that, he ate it constantly. She’d never seen him take to anything so quickly.

By August, the night swims had become a routine. She’d meet him down there after dark, sometimes in nothing but her underwear and a worn t-shirt. He’d be just offshore, his shape breaking the silver surface, tentacles swaying slowly beneath him like smoke.

Sometimes she slid into the water and let him pull her under gently, hands on her waist, the soft friction of his skin against hers as they drifted. Sometimes she just floated on her back while he circled below, trailing his limbs across her body in lazy figures.

He didn’t talk much in the water. Neither did she.

He hadn’t retreated. Not to another coastline, not to a deeper trench.

He stayed.

Not because it was easy.

Because she was here.

---

The dining table was a battlefield of notebooks, half-dried markers, and crumpled practice sheets. Bucky sat on one side, hunched slightly over his paper, his lips pressed into a thin line as he stared at the page. She was across from him, one leg tucked under her, a pen behind her ear, and a soft smile tugging at her lips.

“Alright,” she said, tapping the notebook in front of her. “Last dictation round. Ready?”

He nodded, a little grunt escaping his lips.

She dictated the words slowly -companion, thread, silence, tangled, anchor- and he wrote them down one by one, biting his lower lip in concentration.

Once he was done, she leaned over to check. “Four out of five right,” she said, clearly pleased. “That’s your best yet.”

His brows lifted just slightly, a flicker of satisfaction showing in the subtle twitch of his mouth.

“And now,” she added playfully, “your final boss: read me this paragraph.“

He stared at it, and the words swam a little. He groaned, but took the paper from her fingers anyway. Tried to remember how she told him to break it up. He started slowly, stumbling here and there, his accent flattening some vowels and twisting others, but he got through it.

When he was done, he slumped back in the chair with a frown. “Stupid. I sound stupid.”

“Bucky.” Her voice was firm and fond all at once. “You read an entire paragraph. Out loud. Not even two months ago, you couldn’t recognize your own name on a page. That’s not stupid, that’s amazing.”

He glanced at her. She reached across and softly nudged his knuckles with hers.

“You’re doing something completely outside your world. It’s brave, Bucky. And I’m proud of you.”

Something passed over his face then, a flicker of discomfort difficult to name. He looked away, but not before she caught the way his mouth pressed into a crooked line, half-embarrassed, half-something else.

“…Thanks,” he muttered.

She closed the notebook with a satisfied thump, tapping her pen twice against the cover before glancing his way.

“I’ve got news, by the way,” she said, a bit too casually.

His gaze slid toward her. Suspicious. Waiting.

She smoothed her palms over the tabletop. “I walked past the Shipyard Supply Office yesterday, you know, the one by the ferry docks? They had a job notice posted on the window. They were looking for a new clerk to help organize inventory and process shipments.”

His expression didn’t change, but she saw the shift in his body, the slow tensing of his shoulders, the narrowing of his eyes.

“I went in,” she continued, “and asked about it. They were doing interviews on the spot, so I figured, why not? I didn’t expect anything, but they called me this morning. I got the job.”

Still, he said nothing.

“Only four times a week. Good pay, “she added, trying to keep it light.

“You applied,” he said at last, his voice a low murmur. “Without telling me.”

She blinked. “Well, yeah. It just happened fast-”

“You didn’t even mention it.”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal. I wasn’t even sure I’d get it.”

His frown deepened. “The shipyard supply.”

“Yeah?”

“The clerks there,” he muttered, “they’re all males.”

Ah. There it was.

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “So?”

His jaw worked for a moment before he spoke again. “You’ll be surrounded by them. In a closed space. For hours.”

She exhaled slowly, already sensing the spiral forming behind his eyes, the same one during Chris’ brief crocheting career.

“They’re coworkers, Bucky. I’m going to earn money. That’s all.”

“They’ll want more than that,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“Just like Chris did?” she teased gently, resting a hand on his forearm. “Come on. We’ve been through this.”

His eyes darkened. “They won’t be old. Or married. Or uninterested.

She gave him a look over the rim of her mug. “How can you possibly know their age and relationship status? Did you conduct a census while I wasn’t looking?”

He frowned at the unfamiliar word.

“And again,” she continued, trying to rein in a smile, “you think all of them will want something else from me? What is this, some reverse-harem novella?”

She chuckled, but Bucky didn’t.

“You were right about Chris,” she added quickly, “I’ll give you that. But come on, Bucky. You’ve seen the beach crowd this summer. My body type isn’t exactly top of the ranking-”

“Your body is mine,” he said firmly, pouting now. “You are my mate.”

She arched a brow. “I thought it was mine. Don’t remember gifting it to you.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

The moment the words left her mouth, she saw it, the way his expression shifted. His eyes darkened, not with anger but something far more raw. Hurt. Betrayal. Like she had just broken something sacred between them.

Because to him, that bond wasn’t playful or theoretical. It was everything.

And what she’d just said, even in jest, sounded dangerously close to rejection.

He looked like she’d slapped him.

Her smile faded the second she saw his face. One of his hands curled into a slow, deliberate fist where it rested on the table, the other flexing with a need he didn’t seem to know what to do with. His gaze had dropped, not out of shame, but restraint. His chest moved shallowly, like even breathing around the hurt took effort.

“Bucky…” she began softly, already regretting the jab.

He didn’t look up. Just shook his head once, slow and stiffly.

“I didn’t mean it like that-”

“You did,” he said. Voice low, controlled. “You meant it.”

“No,” she stood from her chair, walking around to him. “I was teasing. That’s all. It was stupid, I’m sorry.”

He didn’t flinch when she reached out, but he didn’t lean into her either. Just sat there, still. Guarded. Wounded.

“I don’t understand your world,” he muttered finally, eyes lifting to hers. “But you understand mine.”

“I’m trying to.”

“Then you know what that kind of bond means. What it costs to say it. What it gives.” His voice dipped even lower, one hand pressing against his chest. “I told you I don’t share. I don’t steal. I chose, and you yielded to me.”

She swallowed, with her heart aching. He was trying so hard to adapt, to live in her world without sacrificing what made him him. But every now and then, their languages still clashed.

She stepped closer, slipping between his legs, gently cupping his jaw.

“I know,” she murmured, stroking the edge of his cheekbone with her thumb. “I know, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make light of what we are. I’d never throw that away. Not for a job. Not for a joke.”

His breath shuddered in relief, but his eyes stayed locked to hers, needing something more than words. Needing her to see it.

So she leaned down, resting her forehead against his.

“This body is mine,” she said softly, “but it’s yours too. Always has been.”

That did it.

His arms wrapped around her waist in a swift motion, dragging her into his lap with a strength that was still startling sometimes. He buried his face against her neck, nuzzling the skin just below her ear with a low hum that bordered on a growl.

“Still don’t like it. The job.” he muttered.

She leaned against his chest, playing with his long hair. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “I extended my stay here. Arthur’s been charging me cheap for the place. I made the fixes that had to be done, which kind of evened things out… but it’s still not fair to him. He could’ve rented this place out during the summer for way more.”

Bucky’s frown deepened.

“I want to do the right thing,” she continued. “Pull my weight. I like it here, and I want to earn the right to stay.”

That made something twist in his chest again.

Pull her weight. Earn it. The idea of her working to keep her lair… it rubbed something raw and ancient in him. Now it wasn’t about the job or the men. It was the fact that he wasn’t the one securing her comfort. That she had to seek help -worse, coin- from others to keep what should be protected by him.

It made him feel less. Not a protector. Not a provider. Not a proper mate.

He didn’t speak, just stayed nestled in the crook of her neck, pensive.

She tilted her head slightly, reading the tension in his posture. “Bucky.”

He didn’t look at her.

“I’m doing it because it’s something I can do, it seems easy, and also it’s a way to belong here. I don’t want to impair Arthur, and I don’t want to move from this house either.”

That got him. He looked at her, reluctantly. “Move?”

“If I can’t pay him the right fee, maybe I should look for a place that I can really afford.”

His whole body went tense.

The idea of her leaving this place -their place- made his stomach drop with a cold, sick weight. His arms pressed harder around her instinctively. “No.”

She blinked. “It’s not-”

“No,” he said again, firmer this time. “You don’t leave your nest. Not after we made it ours.”

His voice had gone low, dangerous. Not to her, but to the very thought of her packing up and going somewhere else, away from the cave, somewhere he couldn’t protect her.

“You think this place is just walls?” he growled, pulling back to look her in the eye. “This is where I came to you as a man. Where I sleep most of the time now, this is our lair now, besides the cave. That doesn’t change just because Arthur could earn more.”

His words were clipped and harsh.

She cupped his cheek again, gently despite the sharpness in his tone. “Bucky-”

“I should be the one to handle it,” he muttered, guiltily. “Should hunt, bargain, do something. Not have you scraping your hands to keep what I’m supposed to protect.”

Her fingers slid into his hair again, soothingly. “You do protect me. This is just a job. Something I can do while you’re at the shore or learning new things here. And, must I remind you what I told you about genders and chores?”

That calmed him a bit, but only just. His brows remained knitted, his expression stormy. “If you must… I’ll allow it. For now.”

She laughed softly at that. “Oh, thank you, almighty lair-lord.”

He didn’t smile.

But he did hold her tighter.

And after a pause, voice barely audible, he muttered, “Still don’t like it.”

She sighed against his collarbone. “I know.”

His hand traced idle shapes along her back, eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder, thoughtful. After a moment, he spoke again, low and rough, “What kind of work could someone like me even do in town?”

She sighed. “Bucky, you don’t have to-”

“I want to,” he interrupted, in a quiet but firm voice. “I can’t read properly yet. Don’t know your machines. Can’t sit in one of those loud rooms with people and… type.” He frowned, flicking away his stare. “But I can do things. Build. Carry. Fix.”

She watched him for a moment, measuring his frustration, the way he tried to cage it behind a calm surface. Carefully, she reached up and ran her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck.

“With no papers,” she said gently, “at the age you appear to be… with no schooling, no official record, it’s hard.” She said it slowly, choosing each word with care, not wanting to bruise his pride. “There’s only a handful of jobs that don’t ask questions. Maybe something down at the port, loading and unloading. The fishermen might need an extra hand. Or maybe out at the lumberyard near the ridge.”

His brow furrowed deeper. “So many rules. Just to do a job. Just to carry things, or fix what’s broken.”

“I know,” she said, brushing her thumb along the curve of his cheek. “Mainland life is… a different kind of wilderness.”

“I hate it.”

“I know that, too. But you’re doing great, you know. Reading. Writing. Talking to people, even if it’s just a grunt.”

“Too many steps,” he muttered, but leaned into her hand anyway.

She cupped his jaw, nudging his gaze back to hers. “You’ve already come so far. And whatever path you choose, it doesn’t have to match mine. Or anyone else’s. You’re not behind. You’re just… different.”

He held her gaze for a long, silent beat. Then, gruffly, “Still don’t like it.”

----

The sun had barely cleared the edge of the horizon when Bucky slid beneath the waves.

The sea was still cold this late in the season, but he welcomed it. Needed it.

His body sliced through the currents as if trying to shake the frustration that had nested deep in his chest the second she told him about the job.

He wasn’t angry. Not really. But something inside him bristled at the idea of her going out for hours, surrounded by strangers -males- with whom she’d share her time, her focus, and her voice.

And he couldn’t follow.

So, he dove. Again. And again. Deep enough that his ears buzzed with the pressure, far enough from the shore that nothing human could reach him.

----

She’d been surprised how much of the job was just… boring. Sorting through old inventory. Stocking shelves. Typing up backorders. Her supervisor, a man named Reynolds who had the body of an old linebacker and the patience of a turtle in traffic, roamed more than he helped, but it was gentle.

“This here’s delicate,” he said while handing her a box of literal nuts and bolts. “You drop one of those, you’ll be pickin’ ‘em up all day.”

Most of the workers were polite and nice. A few younger ones were even friendly. Still, being her first day, she didn’t relax, trying to absorb everything that was instructed to her.

It wasn’t until she stepped out onto the gravel drive after her shift that her shoulders felt lighter.

Because there he was.

Leaned against the far fence, all black hoodie and shadowed eyes. One leg crossed at the ankle, folded arms, not even pretending to hide the way he watched everyone around her like a sentry.

She smiled, walking toward him with her messenger bag slung across her shoulder. “You didn’t have to wait.”

“I did.” His voice was flat. “Was already nearby.”

“Doing what?”

He blinked. “Swimming.”

That explained the faint briny scent beneath the hoodie. And the slightly damp locks behind his ears. She knew better than to tease him when he looked like that, tense and quiet, with his gaze still fixed on the building behind her.

“You alright?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. When she was within reach, he brushed his hand across her hip and leaned in a little. Inhaled. Subtle to anyone else. Not to her.

“Smell like them,” he muttered.

“Oh, come on,” she sighed.

He growled low, a sound meant more for himself than for her. “You talked to them.”

“I also talked to my supervisor, and to the guy at the vending machine who gave me his extra coffee pod, and to the printer that jammed twice. It’s a workplace, Bucky, you are supposed to communicate with people.”

“Hm.”

She rolled her eyes and slipped her arm around his waist.

“Want to walk me to the car, or are you going to keep inspecting my skin for traces of other males?”

He didn’t laugh, but his jaw shifted, and something unreadable flickered in his eyes. Instead of answering, he reached over and took her bag from her shoulder without a word, slinging it across his own as they started walking.

Once inside the car, she clicked her seatbelt into place and turned the key. The engine rumbled to life and Bucky exhaled slowly, like he was trying not to flinch at the sound. Still didn’t like the machine.

As the car rolled forward, he noticed the turn wasn’t one she usually took. His brows drew together, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Where are you going?”

“Oh, I need to pick something up before heading home,” she said casually, glancing at the dashboard clock.

“What thing?”

She grinned. “Not telling.”

He scowled. “Why not?”

“It’s a surprise.” She stuck her tongue out at him like a challenge, eyes back on the road.

“I don’t like surprises,” he grumbled and crossed his arms, clearly not enjoying being left out.

“Oh, cheer up already,” she said, laughing as she pulled into a small gravel lot and killed the engine.

He glanced up, blinking at the familiar sign. The smell hit him first, rich, oily, mouthwatering. The crispy fish place.

Bucky watched her go, with his arms still folded, tracking every movement. A few heads turned when she reached the counter, mostly curious people waiting for their orders, and his jaw ticked once.

But she came back just a minute later, triumphant, holding one of the warm cones of whitebait in both hands. She opened his door and leaned in, pressing the paper cone into his palm.

“For you, mister grumpy,” she said with a teasing smile. “Freshly made and hot.”

He stared at the food, then up at her. Then back down again.

She raised a brow. “What? Thought you liked these.”

He took the cone slowly, brushing her fingers. “Didn’t say I didn’t.” And without much ceremony, he popped one of the tiny, crispy fish into his mouth.

She watched him chew. “Good?”

His silence said it all. That, and the way he immediately reached for a second one.

She grinned and shut the door behind her as she slid back into the driver’s seat.

They drove in silence for a few minutes, the occasional crunch of the whitebait the only sound between them. She had one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on her thigh, humming faintly to the tune playing low on the radio.

Bucky glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, then down at the half-eaten cone in his lap.

“...How was it?” he asked suddenly.

She blinked, turning to look at him briefly. “Work?”

He gave a small nod, chewing a handful of fish. “Your first day.”

Her mouth lifted into a soft smile. “It went alright, actually. A little chaotic. Everyone’s rushing around like they’ve done it a thousand times and forgot I haven’t. But the team was nice, and the supervisor was too. There’s still a lot to pick up, but I think I’ll get there.”

Bucky glanced at her hands on the wheel, her fingers flexing slightly as she navigated the road. His eyes drifted to her gaze, catching the faint drop on her eyelids, then the way her back was pressed against the backrest, and he frowned.

He didn’t really understand the ins and outs of human jobs -rushing around, orders, clocks dictating their time- but he could tell she was tired. And he hated that part. His jaw worked for a moment, like he wanted to say something but decided against it.

“That’s good,” he said finally, leaning his elbow on the window. “That they were nice.”

“Yeah, it is,” she said, glancing at him.

----

By the time they got home, he tossed the empty paper cone into the trash and she flicked on the small kitchen light, casting a soft amber glow across the cozy space.

Bucky grabbed two mugs from the shelf without being asked, putting them on the counter. “Tea?”

She smiled as she pulled off her jacket. “You offering to make it?”

His shrug was slow and a little smug. “Don’t act so surprised. I can boil water.”

She laughed, and the sound filled the kitchen in a way that made him feel… calmer.

“I’m glad you asked, you know,” she said. “I know it’s hard. But you did. That matters.”

He turned the burner on and glanced over his shoulder. “Still don’t like you being tired from something that isn’t for you.”

She came over, arms wrapping loosely around his middle as she leaned into his back. “I’ll be fine. You’re allowed to not like it. But you asking means a lot.”

He grunted softly in response, already moving to make the tea like he’d seen her do dozens of times before, his motions a little clunky, but sure. She used the moment to peel off her shoes and make herself comfortable on the couch, and tugged one of the throw blankets over her lap.

When he returned, he handed her the mug she liked -the one with the chipped rim and faded paint- and set his own on the coffee table without a word. Then, without asking, he sprawled out along the couch and rested his head on her thighs.

She smiled, already threading her fingers into his damp hair. “You know you’ll have to shower if you plan on sleeping in the bed. You smell like seaweed and salt.”

“Maybe you could help with that,” he said, turning just slightly so his face pressed closer to her stomach. His voice came out lower, rougher. “Make sure I don’t miss a spot.”

She huffed a soft laugh, stroking her fingers behind his ear. “Is that what you’re calling it now? Help?”

“I’m learning euphemisms,” he muttered. “Thought you’d be proud.”

----

He didn’t tell her he was going.

She had left that morning with a kiss pressed to his cheek, muttering something about inventory day and that she’d be home late. The moment the car disappeared down the narrow coastal road, Bucky turned toward the sea.

The water was cold early in the day, but it felt like home. He swam with purpose, gliding along the jagged shoreline, keeping low beneath the surface. He surfaced only once, far enough from the docks not to be seen, but close enough to make the final stretch.

He carried a waterproof bag. Something she’d bought him months ago, for him to change when coming to the cottage from the cave and vice versa. Inside of it, there were dry jeans, a worn t-shirt, and a flannel button-up, along with a towel and a pair of sneakers. He shifted slowly, his limbs and muscles contorting and compressing under the strain.

It used to hurt more.

Not anymore, not as much. Not since he’d started spending more time in his human form. Not since he started choosing to do it for her.

Once dressed, hair still damp, he climbed up the stone slope toward the port.

He hated the place immediately.

Too loud. Too crowded. Too many eyes.

He loitered near the edge for a while, half-shadowed by a stack of pallets. Watching men move with purpose. Crates were hauled. Nets were tossed. Jokes and shouts flew through the sea breeze. His presence didn’t go unnoticed for long.

“Hey-” someone barked. “You loiterin’, or lookin’ for somethin’?”

The man approaching was stocky and old, his hands were scarred from rope burn and time. He looked Bucky up and down, sizing him like a head of cattle.

“Work,” Bucky answered simply.

“Yeah? What kind?”

“Don’t care.”

The man’s brow rose. “You lift?”

Bucky nodded.

The answer came in the form of a sharp look and a sack of cement dropped at his feet.

He picked it up like it weighed nothing.

The man squinted. “You on something?”

“No.”

“Show me again.”

Bucky bent down and grabbed two sacks this time. Made it look like it cost him.

The man gave a grunt of approval. “We’ve got a guy out with a busted back. You can fill in. You show up, keep your head down, don’t break shit.”

“No paperwork?” Bucky asked.

The man shrugged. “Not for this. Temporary’s temporary.”

He handed Bucky a folded piece of paper. “Name?”

He paused a bit. Then-

“Erm- James.”

“Show up at six. Don’t be late.”

And that was how Bucky got his first human job.

No ID was asked. No résumé. No one cared where he lived, who he knew, or what he’d done before. Just muscle and silence, which turned out to be the only language that really mattered there.

Half the men grunted more than they spoke anyway.

He kept his strength in check. Always pretending to strain just enough to seem impressive, but not inhuman. He lifted. He moved things. He kept his gaze down.

No one noticed him.

No one asked questions.

And strangely, that felt good.

----

Even if she only worked a few days a week, Bucky kept heading to the port daily.

Each morning, he’d tell her he was going for a swim, pressing a kiss to her shoulder or nuzzling under her ear before vanishing toward the shoreline. She never questioned it. He was sea-bound, always had been. She didn’t know he changed into dry clothes behind the rocks, walked through the back alleys of the port, and lifted crates and sacks until his shoulders ached, not from strain, but from holding back.

He didn’t tell her.

Not yet.

And on Saturday, when the foreman handed him his pay -a modest wad of bills folded with a paperclip-, he pocketed it and made his way through town.

Straight to the yarn shop.

He pushed the door open, and the little bell above jingled. The air smelled of cotton, lavender soap, and something faintly briny and sharp. The clerk was behind the counter, sorting a box of embroidery floss.

She looked up.

Their eyes locked.

For a beat too long, neither of them moved.

“Octopus,” she greeted dryly.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Herring,” he returned.

Her chin lifted a touch as she raised a single brow. “Well. You’re a long way from your rocks, aren’t you?”

“I want one of those hooks,” he said gruffly, ignoring her tone and nodding toward a row on the wall behind her. “The kind with the silicone handle.”

She squinted at him, twitching her lips. “Size?”

A pause.

He blinked at her. Opened his mouth. Closed it.

Her mouth curved, and not in a kindly way. “Don’t even know which one she uses most, do you?”

He exhaled through his nose, sharply and annoyed, and his hand twitched at his side. He imagined flipping the entire counter over. “Just tell me what kind of yarn she buys.”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because, old hag, you want coin.”

Her cackle was almost musical. “The nerve of calling me a hag, you ancient squid.”

His nostrils flared at the throwback insult, fisting his hands at his sides.

She turned around before he could spit fire back, plucked a 3.5mm hook from a drawer, and dropped it on the counter.

“Five dollars.”

He scowled at the price. “You gouge everyone, or just me?”

“What? Can’t pay with seashells and rusty fishhooks?” she teased, propping her chin in her hand like she had all day to enjoy this.

He shoved a hand into his jeans pocket, tugging out the folded bundle of bills the dock foreman had handed him. As he fumbled through it for the right number, she tilted her head, looking at the money.

She smirked. “Tell me, octopus. Who’d you eat for it?”

He slapped a five on the counter with more energy than necessary. “Didn’t eat anyone.”

“Pity,” she said sweetly, dragging the bill across the wood.

He snatched the hook and turned.

“Always a pleasure,” she sang-songed at his back.

He didn’t answer.

But the door swung closed with enough force to rattle the bell like a warning.

----

She was slicing an apple when the door opened and closed with a familiar creak.

Bucky stepped inside, hair damp from sea-spray, smelling of salt and wind. He kissed her cheek in passing, a firm press of lips to skin that made her smile.

“I’m gonna shower,” he muttered.

She hummed in response, too focused on not cutting her fingers.

He disappeared down the hallway, already taking off his sneakers.

A minute later, when she carried her plate to the table, something else caught her eye.

A crochet hook lay near the placemat. Not hers, she could tell at a glance. The handle was smooth, matte silicone in a soft sea-glass green. Ergonomic. Just like the one she'd mentioned a dozen times but never actually bought.

She blinked at it. Picked it up. Turned it slowly in her fingers.

A smile bloomed across her face before she could stop it.

She padded softly down the hall. The bathroom door was closed, steam slipping out through the gap at the top. She knocked once and let herself in, sitting on the toilet lid like she sometimes did when he showered. Her favorite perch for idle conversations and teasing.

“So…” she started, “I saw something pretty on the table.”

Behind the curtain, water hit the tiles. A pause.

“Did you?”

“Hmm. Might’ve appeared out of nowhere. Or maybe… someone put it there.”

Another pause. Then, a low, almost grumbling answer: “Maybe.”

“Any idea where it came from?”

His voice was flat but betraying the tiniest flicker of pride. “The yarn shop.”

She let the silence stretch before whispering, “Thank you, Bucky.”

A grunt.

She leaned back, still twirling the hook between her fingers. “I thought you didn’t like surprises.”

“I don’t,” he shot back. “But this one was for you.”

She laughed, soft and delighted. “You’re such a cutie.”

“I’m not.” The curtain shifted slightly, and his silhouette moved toward the edge. “You like it?”

“I love it.” She smiled at his shape through the steam. “Almost as much as I love that you listened.”

“I always listen,” he said simply.

She tilted her head and bit her lip.

Then, without a word, she stood up and began to undress. Quietly. Purposefully.

When the curtain rustled and she stepped in, Bucky blinked at her through the steam. His eyes dropped, then rose again, a glimmer of surprise that was chased quickly by something darker, pleased and hungry.

“You never come in here with me,” he murmured.

She shrugged, already reaching for the soap. “You always get handsy. And it gets messy.”

A half smile tugged the corner of his mouth. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “I didn’t say that.”

He grunted, stepping closer, water streaming between them. “Good.”

His hands found her waist, pressing his fingers as if he’d been waiting for this moment forever. Which, to be fair, he had.

"Let me wash-"

"I'll wash you first," she cut in smoothly, stepping into him. "You're the surprise guy today."

He scowled, just a little, more out of habit than anything else. But he didn’t protest. Her soapy hands on him were more than welcome, warm, slow, and familiar.

"So..." she murmured as her hands roamed across his chest, tracing old scars, "may I ask how you bought it?"

His eyes narrowed faintly, water dripping from his lashes. “Oh, I followed your example.”

She glanced up at him, arching a brow.

“Got myself an occupation,” he said, a little too casually.

Her hands stilled. “You what?”

He smirked then, that rare, crooked thing that always felt like it held secrets. “Temporary. Port work. Told you I could be useful.”

“Wait- you’ve been working?”

His shrug was all muscle and pride. “You’re not the only one who can bring something to the lair.”

“How do you get there every day?” she asked, gliding her fingers down his sides, suds slipping through her touch. “How did they even hire you? And what kind of work do you do at the port?”

Bucky tilted his head back into the spray with a satisfied sigh. For once, he wasn’t the one interrogating, and he found that he liked it.

“I swim,” he said simply. “Carry my things in that waterproof bag you gave me.”

She blinked. “That’s a long swim.”

He cracked a crooked grin again, arching a brow cockily at her. “I get there without breaking a sweat.”

She gave him a look, halfway between impressed and exasperated.

“And they hired you just like that?”

“They saw my potential,” he said smugly.

“Bucky…” she started, the warning in her tone was unmistakable.

“I’m not stupid, mate,” he cut in, lifting a hand to push wet strands from her face. “I feign to struggle a little.”

She snorted, biting back a smile, then let her gaze drop -just for a beat- before her hand followed, sliding down his slick chest and lower still, wrapping her fingers around him with a teasing squeeze.

His breath caught in his throat.

“Any manly co-worker I should be worried about?” she murmured, stroking him lazily. “Being a little too friendly with you?”

He snorted, rolling his eyes before narrowing them in a slow, pointed glare. “They barely speak. One barked at me for loitering and asked if I was on something after I lifted a couple of sacks.”

She chuckled lowly, grazing the head of his cock with her thumb just to hear him inhale sharply through his nose. “So no charming carrier with broad shoulders and twinkling eyes?”

He arched into her touch, resting a hand on the tile behind her. “None of them smells like you. So no, mate, you’ve got no competition.”

She laughed, slow and satisfied. “Mm, I like that answer.”

“And I like that hand,” he muttered, cock twitching against her palm. “But if you keep doing that, I’m gonna end up making a mess.”

She looked up at him, eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, do you?”

Instead of answering, she leaned in, giving a playful lick to his nipple. He twitched again in her hand.

That was enough to snap his restraint.

In one swift motion, he lifted her effortlessly, backing her against the cool tiles. Her legs wrapped around his waist without hesitation, gripping his shoulders with her hands.

“Yeah,” he rasped, his breath hot against her neck. “I do. And now I’m wondering…” He shifted his hips, teasing, testing, “…if you can take me just like this. No stalling. No fingers first. No cheating.”

His nose brushed her jaw as he nuzzled close, voice getting rougher.

“You think you’re ready for that, mate?”

She seemed to weigh it for a heartbeat, her gaze locked on his with a look that was equal parts challenge and surrender. Then she leaned in, nipped softly at his jaw, and whispered against his skin, “There’s only one way to find out.”

His hands clenched under her thighs, the slick heat of her pussy pressed flush to him, and for a beat, he just held her there, chest to chest, heartbeats thrumming in sync.

“Brave little thing,” he muttered, more reverent than mocking.

His hips rolled upward, slow and deliberate, teasing her just enough to make her whimper before he pulled back again. Her breath hitched.

His mouth found her throat, then her collarbone, licking and biting and making her head tip back. He moved with purpose now, grinding deliberately and relentlessly against her, slick skin on slick skin until she moaned as he finally pushed into her, slow at first, stretching her inch by inch with no buffer, no hesitation. It wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t unkind either. It was all raw, all heat, all him.

“That’s it,” he hissed, rocking deeper. “Take it. Take all of me.”

She did, with trembling thighs, fluttering breaths, hands tangled in his wet hair as he pressed her harder to the tiles, chasing every gasp, every whimper like it was a reward.

His thrusts became deeper, rougher, hips snapping with purpose. Not just from desire. That raw satisfaction rumbled in his chest and put a smirk on his lips against her neck.

He’d earned this.

Not just her gasps, or the way her nails dragged down his back. But the moment, the right to feel proud. To feel like a male who could provide, who could give her something she needed, even if it was small. Even if it was just a damn hook with a better grip.

“You liked that gift?” he growled against her ear, voice low and strained as he drove into her again,

She moaned in answer, hips rolling to meet his. That was enough.

“Good,” he grunted, pushing her higher against the tile, water cascading down their bodies, “Because I got it with my own hands. My work. My coin.”

He bit gently at her jawline, then licked over the mark. One hand slipped beneath her thigh, lifting her higher to get deeper still. Her head rolled back with a sharp cry.

“You feel this?” he growled, every word rough with the effort of holding back. “This is what you do to me. Every day. When you smile. When you kiss me.”

She whimpered something incoherent -his name, a plea, a yes- and he slammed into her again, his pace brutal now. His satisfaction, his triumph, all of it pouring into the way he took her.

His fingers dug into her thighs.

“You’re mine, mate,” he bit out, hips pounding, pelvic bone grinding against her clit. “And I’ll earn a hundred more hooks if it means you keep looking at me like that.”

She shattered with a cry, her legs trembling, arms tight around his shoulders as her climax hit her hard. And still he moved, drawn in by the way she clenched around him, the way she gave in fully to him, again and again.

His release came soon after, stuttering hips, forehead pressed to her shoulder as he groaned her name against her skin, spilling deep inside her.

For a moment, all that could be heard was the sound of their panting breaths and the water streaming down.

----

The sheets were soft and warm, still faintly damp where their bodies had pressed on them after the shower. Her fingers drew idle patterns across his chest, tracing the old scars while the weight of his arm rested around her waist. He was unusually quiet, eyes half-lidded but not asleep, his breathing deep and regular.

She shifted slightly, angling her face toward his shoulder.

“You know…” she began gently, “you don’t have to work, Bucky.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just blinked slowly, as though choosing his words. Then, his jaw clenched a little, and he spoke without looking at her.

“I do.”

There wasn’t anger in it, but there was a certain weight. Finality. She stilled her hand on his chest, and in that pause, she understood.

It was about pride. It was instinct. It was the need to contribute, to pull his weight beside her in the strange new shape of the life they were building. In his world, in his upbringing, a mate who didn't provide was less than. Worth less. And he had already spent too long hiding, watching from the fringes of her life.

Trying to coddle him or dismiss the effort would only wound him.

So instead, she shifted up slightly and pressed a kiss just below his collarbone.

“Alright,” she murmured. “Then I hope it’s not too hard on you.”

He finally looked at her then. Not with surprise, but something softer. Something grateful.

“It’s not,” he said after a beat, dragging his fingers lazily along her back. “I like earning things for you.”

She smiled into his skin, nuzzling into the curve of his neck.

"That's flattering," she murmured, voice low against him, "but I want you to get things too."

He made a quiet sound in his throat, and she could feel the frown forming in his face before she even looked up.

"I know what you said about your kind and possessions," she added quickly, drawing slow lines on his stomach, "but you live here now. So maybe you can indulge yourself a little."

Still no answer. His body remained still under her, unreadable. She softened her tone further, shifting so she could rest her chin just below his collarbone.

"Like tools. Or food you enjoy. Not just... gifts for me."

He shrugged one shoulder, not quite dismissively, not quite accepting either. But after a beat, he muttered:

"Yes. That could be."

She smiled against his skin, brushing her nose along the warm line of his throat. The scent of soap remained faintly on him, mixed with salt and something that was just his.

“Then we’ll make a list,” she murmured. “What you want. What we want.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just breathed in, as his hand slid to rest low on her back. Holding her there. Tethering.

But the way his thumb traced lazy circles against her skin… the way his chest rose calmly… it told her he was already thinking about it. Already imagining it.

Their nest.

Their life.

A future neither of them had expected, slowly taking shape like the tide reshaping the shore: patient and inevitable.

Taglist based on the main story: @thatesqcrush @lonelyghosts-stuff @angelilacsworld @dollface-xoxo @mcira @lazyneonrabbitt @vxllys @namjoohnie @sebastians-love @misspendragonsworld @thewriters64 @escapefromrealitylol @hi172826 @wintrsoldrluvr @reddesires @ruexj283 @buckvoidsyy @littlesuniee @kimberly-stocks @pandaxnienke @ladypncl @homiesexuallaj @kulteule @awesompawsum @killerwendigo @princessgriffin1998 @helen-2003 @nynxtea @alagalaska @maryevm @kittieboo @otterlycanadian @queergalpal97 @gentlelimerence @moogles93 @tentacle-priestess @fandomsearcherforcuntymen @lemonylover @wintrsoldrluvr @x-press-it

dividers by: @/strangergraphics

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tweedcola · 9 days ago

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Hi!!! I'm absolutely in love with your Bucky and Fairy series!!!! I think your an awesome writer❤️. I was wondering if you could write a story about Fairy being worried of Bucky cheating after they're married since he was such a player. And Bucky swears to her that he has eyes for no one else now but her.

love it let's go

forever faithful

18+

he wouldn't. he couldn't. bucky is entirely incapable of hurting you - especially in that way. isn't he?

content warning: mob!bucky x wife!reader, mature themes, insecure thoughts, angst, mention of cheating, misunderstanding trope, hurt/comfort, fluff. also this is pretty long by my standards!!

Series Masterlist

Being married to Bucky usually feels like the most natural thing in the world, but there are times when you feel a little out of your depth. One of those times being when he brings you to parties. You're still not quite used to being the Queen of New York and having all the power that title brings, especially not when you've been on Bucky's arm for years now - but people are finally starting to actually respect you rather than brush you off as just another one of his girls.

The main thing that's changed is how much more comfortable the women are around you. Now that your relationship with Bucky is legitimate, and the possibility of you being a mistress planning on seducing their husbands has significantly lowered, they are much warmer to you.

"Take advantage of this time - you're still in the honeymoon phase, meaning he'll do anything you ask," Giselda tells you with a wistful look. "It wears off quick."

"Don't scare her, Selda," Fran scolds her lightly. "You sound like a bitter, old lady."

"I am a bitter, old lady!" Giselda retorts with a dry laugh, before turning her attention back to you. "Don't take this part for granted. Before the kids, and the stress, and the late nights he'll spend at another woman's house-"

"Selda!" Fran cuts in with a glare. "That's enough."

You take no mind. Deep down, you know they could never understand just how deeply you and Bucky feel for each other. They don't realize how your relationship is stronger than they could fathom, built on the foundation of friendship and blossoming with each passing day. He isn't capable of betraying you.

But doubt has an ugly way of creeping in when it's not welcome.

"Who's she?" You ask Sam with a raised brow as you nod towards where Bucky's speaking warmly with a woman you don't recognize. She looks around fifteen years older than you and Bucky, and she's admittedly gorgeous.

Sam looks across the bar and seems surprised when he sees her. "Oh. That is, uh, an old friend of his. A very old friend; I haven't seen or heard about her since before he met you," He tells you.

"I see," You utter, trying not to let the irritation seep into your tone as they laugh together.

You're not a jealous wife - at least, you didn't think you'd be. Back when you were only friends, you would get horrifically jealous, but that was because you were so scared of losing him to someone else. Now, though, there's a ring on his finger signifying to the world that he's yours, and you're entirely secure in your marriage.

But something about her and the way she's looking at him irks you.

"Did they fuck?" You ask Sam, throwing casual out the window.

He lifts up his drink. "No," He tells you. "Not to my knowledge, anyway."

You turn to him and raise a brow.

"They didn't," He doubles down more firmly. "Agatha helped us out when we were in trouble a few years ago. Sure, they flirted, but you know him. He'd flirt with a brick wall. Nothing ever happened between them."

That brings you solace - until you recount the whole story to your nail woman.

"Oh, no. Oh, no, no," Josefina utters, shaking her head.

"What?" You ask with a frown.

"They haven't slept together," She says gravely, looking up at you as she files your nails. "Means they'll be still be curious as to what it would be like."

"Jamie doesn't waste his time thinking about what sex would be like with other women," You tell her curtly.

"All men think about is what sex will be like with every woman they encounter, whether they're happily married or not- it's only natural," She claims. "But when the women in question are thinking the same thing, that's the danger zone. Who is this woman, what's the history?"

"She's in the same line of work as him, to my knowledge," You tell her. "Helped Jamie almost a decade ago, and now she's resurfaced out of nowhere."

Josefina nods slowly before looking back down at your nails. "I'll file these into claws, just in case."

The first time Bucky lies to your face is on a late Thursday night.

"You shouldn't have waited up for me, fairy," He says as he wraps his arms around you.

"I didn't wanna eat without you," You tell him honestly as you take a bite from the bowl of pasta you're sharing.

"Missed you today," He mumbles against your forehead before opening his mouth to let you feed him.

"Missed you more," You say before turning to him. "How was your day?"

"Uh, it was fine," He replies with his eyes on the food. "Just been balancing the books with Alex and Sam. Took a little longer than I expected."

Your blood runs cold. Just an hour ago, Sam dropped by to see you. He didn't mention anything about being with Bucky tonight - in fact, he seemed surprised to hear Bucky wasn't home.

"Oh, Aggie? She's helping us get into Chicago," He tells you casually. "She's got good connections there, and you know how I've always wanted Chicago."

You can't help but be straight up with him - he may be able to lie to your face, but you can't hold back when there's something you want to know. "Who's that woman?" You ask him curtly. "She seems to be at the bar quite a bit."

Aggie. Your eye twitches at the nickname that leaves his mouth so easily. Does he think about fucking her? Was he with her tonight?

"What are you giving her in return?" You ask him curiously.

"She's a good friend; she hasn't asked for anything," Bucky explains before taking another bite. "I'm sure there'll be an opportunity for me to help her out in the future, though. Heck, by now, I must owe her a hundred favors."

"She seems nice," You say with as much sincerity as you can muster. "I'd like to properly meet her."

You almost regret telling him that.

The next day, you're checking the stock in one of the warehouses when he shows up with her. The idea of her sitting in his passenger seat, where you'd usually sit, makes your stomach churn.

Stop it. You trust him.

"Fairy, this is Agatha Harkness," He says with a smile. "Aggie, this is my beautiful wife, Y/N."

"I've heard so much about you," She tells you with a smile as she holds her hand out to you. "The fact that you tamed James must mean you're an incredible woman. I'm in awe of you."

Oh, it's James now?

You take in a deep breath and do well to shake her hand rather than claw her eyes out. Fucking James.

Somehow, you manage to force a smile. "Can't say I've heard anything about you, Agatha," You can't help but say.

She shoots him a smirk. "I don't blame him; there's not really much to say."

"You're being modest," Bucky says with a chuckle before looking over to you. "Aggie is very good at what she does. She could sell a machine gun to the Dalai Lama."

Your hand slips into his, subconsciously staking your claim.

"I met James when he was only seventeen," She tells you with a smile. "He's grown into such a handsome young man - but I'm not surprised. He's always been gorgeous."

Inwardly cringing as you try to mentally work out how old she must've been back then, you squeeze Bucky's hand. He gives you a cheeky wink, one that would usually elicit a giggle from you, but you can't help but feel ill.

The first time you imagine them fucking, you're disgusted with yourself.

"What's wrong, fairy?" Bucky asks you between heavy breaths while you scramble to sit on the edge of the bed.

You shake your head, trying desperately to get the image out of your head. Think about rainbows. Butterflies. Puppies.

"Baby, talk to me," He mumbles, gently rubbing your back. "Everything okay?"

It happened against your will - you didn't want to think about Bucky having sex with another woman. But as you were riding him, as his head fell back and the groans left his mouth, you couldn't help but wonder.

How could you?

Looking over at him, into his deep blue eyes, you feel absolutely awful. How could you ever think he could hurt you in that way?

"You okay, fairy?" He mumbles softly, gently stroking your arm. "Something I can do? Need me to fuck off?"

Looking over at him, meeting his shiny eyes, you can't help but be disgusted with yourself. After seven months of marriage and nine years of friendship, you know him better than you know himself. You know his character.

"I'm okay," You find the energy to say. "Just..."

"You're alright," He says, placing a soft kiss to your cheek. He doesn't need an explanation - you want to stop having sex, and that doesn't need a reason. More than anything, he's your safe space, and he'd never push you out of your comfort zone during such an intimate moment. The bedroom is where you're both most vulnerable, and Bucky understands that sometimes, it can feel too intense, and you need a break.

And you know all this. Which is why you're so angry at yourself for doubting his loyalty, for allowing yourself to picture such a horrid scene. He wouldn't. He couldn't betray you.

You're starting to see Bucky less and less during the days, and you can't help but spiral. As you lay next to him in bed, your mind wanders to dark places.

He's on his Kindle and you're staring up at the ceiling. His arm's around your shoulder, fingers gently stroking your skin.

Why hasn't he made a move on you yet? He's usually all over you when he hasn't seen you all day. Could it be he's already been satisfied tonight?

Stop. How could you think like that?

"Fairy?" He whispers suddenly, pulling you from your thoughts. "What you thinking about, baby?"

You turn on your side to look at him. "You," Is your truthful answer.

"Yeah?" He asks with a smirk, putting away his Kindle before turning to you and resting his hand on your waist. "What about me?"

"Wondering why we aren't fucking yet," You admit simply.

He raises his brows and shuffles in closer to you. "Well, to be honest, after the other night... I thought I should give you some space. I didn't wanna push you," He tells you.

"Oh, that?" You ask with a soft laugh. "No, that was just a random blip. I want you, Jamie. Want you really bad."

"Yeah?" He asks, taking your hands and pinning them above your head, slowly nestling between your legs. "Is that right, fairy?"

"Mhm," You hum, craning your neck up, desperate to get a kiss from him.

"All you had to do was ask, pretty girl," Bucky mumbles before kissing you deeply. It feels safe, and secure, and like nothing has changed between you.

One of his hands trails down your body and between your legs, before it slips under your panties. He continues kissing you while rubbing your clit, making you whimper into his mouth.

"I missed you," You whisper as your back arches.

"I missed you too, fairy," Bucky says lowly, his hard cock digging into your thigh. Before you can beg him to fuck you, though, you hear the worst sound in the world.

His phone rings.

"Ugh, turn it off," You whine, the jarring sound going straight through you. "Why isn't it on silent mode?"

Bucky lifts his head up, his lips parted. "Shit. I've been waiting to hear back on something important," He tells you, making your blood run cold.

"James, if you answer that call, I swear to God..." You trail off, glaring at him.

"I'm sorry, fairy. Give me five minutes," He says before getting off of you and grabbing his phone from the nightstand.

You stare up at the ceiling, seething. The only thing worse than him answering a call with his fingers in your panties would be if the person on the other side was-

"Aggie, hey," He answers, making your hand twitch.

Immediately, you get off the bed and storm into the en-suite, making sure to slam the door behind you. You stare at yourself in the mirror. Have you lost it? Are you not as beautiful to him as you used to be? Is he bored of you?

There was a time when Bucky would let the city burn just so he could look at you. When the sound of his phone ringing would melt into the background if his lips were on yours. When he'd do anything just for a chance to look at you a little longer. What he just did was a betrayal of every promise he's made you. Maybe you're being dramatic, but it's he who set the precedent. Telling you nothing would ever come above you, that he'd rather die than hurt you.

When you re-enter the bedroom, he's hanging up the phone. You stare coldly at him. "How could you do that?" You ask him.

His face softens. "I'm sorry, fairy, it was-"

"I don't give a fuck what it was about, you don't do that. Not to me," You cut him off.

"Can I explain myself?" He asks, the frustration in his tone only pissing you off further.

"Shut the fuck up, don't talk to me like that," You retort, pointing your finger at him. "You're a fucking asshole. Go."

"Go?" He repeats with raised brows.

"Yeah. Get the fuck out, because you're not sleeping in here with me tonight," You tell him curtly.

It looks as though he's about to say something else, maybe even argue with you, but instead, he takes in a deep breath and leaves the room.

The next morning, you wake up just as angry as you were when you fell asleep. It was a shitty night, tossing and turning and constantly waking up, your hands reaching out for a warmth that wasn't there.

After showering and getting dressed, you head downstairs. Your plan is to be out of the house all day so you don't have to speak to Bucky, but just as you get to the kitchen to make yourself a quick drink, you're taken aback by what you see.

The island in the middle of the kitchen is covered in gift-wrapped boxes, baskets of your favorite foods and self-care items, and bouquets of flowers. You roll your eyes. It won't be that easy to win your forgiveness. You begin to walk straight over to the sink, but a familiar smell stops you in your tracks, right by the corner of the island.

Looking down, you see a platter of pastries from your favorite local bakery. You suck in a sharp breath. Ignore it. Walk away. Leave.

But they look so fresh.

Fuck it. With a huff, you grab a beignet and take a bite, your eyes fluttering shut at the softness and sweetness. While you chew, a pair of hands rest on your hips.

"I love you. I'm so, so sorry," Bucky says lowly, resting his chin on your shoulder as his arms wrap tightly around you. "I was an asshole. Shouldn't have done that to you, and I never will again."

Sighing, you turn to face him. "You think some sweet treats and flowers are gonna make me happy?" You ask him with a raised brow.

"I also got you that bracelet you've been eyeing up," He points out, resting his forehead against yours. "I'm sorry. I know saying it isn't enough but I need you to know that I mean it. I love you."

"Yeah," Is all you give him back before you continue eating the beignet.

"Let me take you to brunch, fairy, wherever you want," He requests, rubbing your hips. "And then we can go to the bar and celebrate Vinnie's 21st with the guys. What do you say?"

Looking up into his eyes, you nod. "Alright," You whisper.

His hands slip down to your ass and he leans down and kisses you softly. "You, uh... think we have time for a quickie, first?" He asks carefully.

With a scoff, you push him away. "In your fucking dreams, Barnes," You say with a glare, before taking a few steps towards the door. "Let's see how I'm feeling after brunch."

Though you weren't in the mood for sex after brunch, you did let Bucky eat you out on the way to the bar. It almost made you forget why you were ever mad at him, but when you get to the bar and see Agatha among the others, you're in a mood again.

Sam sits next to you while you watch Bucky speaking to Vinnie, likely giving him a lecture about being a man and taking on more responsibilities. Agatha lingers around them, making your fingers twitch.

"All good?" Sam asks you as he refills your glass with whisky.

"Meh," You let out, sinking back in your seat.

"What's wrong, hmm?" He presses, nudging your shoulder with his.

"Nothing; I'm being dramatic," You tell him before turning to him and lowering your voice. "Swear to me that this conversation stays between us?"

"Like every conversation we have," He replies, frowning. "What's going on?"

You let out a deep sigh. "I'm jealous," You admit, as painful as it is.

"Jealous? Of who?" He pushes incredulously.

"Alright, maybe jealous is the wrong word, because there's nothing about her I'm jealous of," You backtrack, malice seeping into your voice. "That fucking Agatha. I don't like her. Don't trust her."

Sam raises his brows and sits back, realization on his face. "Oh," He says simply, letting a short silence sit between you before he speaks again. "Her and Bucky are close."

"Yeah, no shit," You spit.

"Do you really think he'd do that to you?" Sam questions you.

"No," You answer immediately. "But I don't doubt she'd try."

"And that's all it would ever be," He assures you. "And the second she oversteps, she's out of here. Bucky wouldn't disrespect you by keeping someone like that around."

You hum, nodding slowly. He's right. Of course he's right.

"Anyway," Sam continues. "How's everything else? Your friends all good?"

Confused by his sudden interest in your girlfriends, you narrow your eyes at him. "Uh, yeah," You reply. "Why?"

"No, just making sure," He claims. "Y'know, one of yours is one of us. Gotta make sure everyone's eating good."

"They're eating good," You assure him, before his words remind you of something that makes you grin. "Banita is definitely eating good. She's finally not feeling sick anymore, and she's got all these weird pregnancy cravings, and a huge appetite."

"Oh, Banita, yeah," He breathes out. "How far along is she, now?"

"Seven months," You tell him with a smile. "It's the baby shower in a few weeks, and I'm so excited. It's gonna be so cute!"

"Are we invited?" He asks, surprising you. "Y'know, just to keep an eye on you guys, make sure you're safe."

"Uh, it's kind of like a women-only thing, and it's only a small thing at Banita's house, so no need for security guards," You explain. "But I'll bring you some leftover cake."

Sam nods. "Thanks. Appreciate it."

You sit back in your chair again, and glance over at where Bucky was talking to Vinnie. He's now talking to Agatha, much to your dismay. They're laughing.

"Like, what could they be talking about that's that funny?" You wonder out loud, shaking your head.

Sam snorts at you.

"What?" You ask him with a glare.

"It's just funny," He comments. "I remember back when Bucky would say shit like that about the guys you'd talk to. God, it was so frustrating how jealous he'd get. And he'd take it out on us whenever you had a date with someone else, so thanks for that." With a small smile, Sam looks over at you. "That man went through hell every day that you weren't his. I'd be damned if he screwed it up now that he's got you. You're too important to him, boss."

You continue looking at Bucky as he speaks to Agatha. Sam is right. You should listen to Sam. Stop letting your twisted mind overthink and drive you crazy. Bucky has more than earned your trust.

So why is he not moving her hand off his arm?

The final straw breaks you a week later.

Bucky had a long meeting with a supplier. You wanted to join him, seeing as you're trying to get more involved with the business, but he said he didn't want you there - that it might get ugly. He told you only him and Sam were going in, and it was going to be a difficult, tense conversation.

Naturally, you're concerned for him - even more so when you get a call from Sam at 10pm. Oh God. This is it. He's gonna tell you Bucky's dead.

"Hello?" You ask with a whisper.

"Hey, you," Sam replies, and it sounds like he's been drinking. "Uh, I was thinking about... what you said the other day. About Banita-"

"Sam, where are you?" You cut him off. "Are you not with James right now?"

"Huh? Nah, I'm at the bar," He tells you. "Haven't seen Buck all day."

"All day?" You repeat, your heart thudding in your chest. "But... uh, isn't he meeting with Novikov tonight?"

"What? No, that meeting isn't until next month," Sam tells you, making your blood run cold.

"Oh," You utter, feeling sick to your stomach.

"Is Bucky not home? I thought-"

"No, he- he just rolled up to the house, actually," You claim, not wanting Sam to be suspicious. "I'm just being dumb; I forgot he had gone out on an errand and mixed up the date of the meeting. But he's back now, so, mystery over."

"Oh, good," Sam replies. "Anyway, I really need to talk to you about Bani-"

"I gotta go, Sam, I'll talk to you later," You say in a hushed, rushed voice, hanging up on him and sinking to the floor of your bedroom.

Before your mind gets a chance to overthink, you quickly call Bucky. Why would he lie to you about having to work tonight? Where has he been all day?

It rings three times before he picks up.

"Hey, fairy," He answers. "Everything alright?"

"Where are you?" You ask him, giving him a chance to come clean.

Maybe he didn't mean to lie to you - maybe he mixed the date of the meeting up himself, and right now, he's about to give you a perfectly good explanation about where he is and what he's doing.

"I told you, I've got a late meeting with Novikov," He says, making your heart drop.

"Oh. With- is Sam there, too?" You ask, your voice no louder than a whisper.

"Yeah, he is," He lies straight to you.

You lean back against the bed, your breaths shaky. "Okay," You utter.

"Are you sure you're okay, fairy?" Bucky asks you.

Clinging onto your t-shirt, you part your lips in a silent scream. Yell at him. Tell him you know he's lying. Demand him to tell you the truth.

And then you hear it. It's faint, but the silence between you allows you to make out exactly what it is: the sound of a woman laughing. And you'd put money on who that woman is.

"I'm fine. I'm going to sleep," You say, numb.

"Alright. I'll probably end up staying at the office until the early morning so I might not see you until tomorrow, baby," He tells you, making your guts churn.

"Okay," You squeak. "Good night."

"Good night, fairy. I love you," Bucky says, and it sounds exactly like he's always said it.

You hang up and throw your phone at the wall before bursting into thick, ugly sobs.

Bucky gets home earlier than he thought he would. It's just past 1am when he walks through the front door, and he's surprised to hear music from the living room. He thought you would be fast asleep in bed by now.

He takes off his shoes and makes his way to the living room, expecting to see you passed out on the couch with one of your shitty reality TV shows playing, but the sight he gets is much, much different.

As he walks in, he immediately kicks over an empty bottle of wine, which makes him stop in his tracks. He sees you sitting in the middle of the carpet, wearing your wedding dress, holding another half-empty bottle of wine, with your head hung down. Your wedding video is playing on the TV.

"What is going on?" He utters, walking over to you. "Baby? Are you okay?"

You look up at him, and it looks like you've been crying for hours.

Bucky sinks to his knees and places his hands on your shoulders. "Hey, hey, fairy, it's me," He whispers. "What's going on, hmm? How come you're in your dress?"

He can tell by the look on your face that you're far too drunk to give him a reasonable answer.

"Okay, come on, let's go to bed," Bucky says, taking the wine bottle from your hands and placing it on the coffee table. He then grabs the remote from the table and turns off the TV.

"I know what you did," You suddenly say, your words slurred.

Bucky frowns down at you. "What?" He asks, stroking your arm. "What do you mean, fairy?"

"I know you fucked Agatha," You cry out. "You're having an affair, aren't you?"

His face falls and his voice turns cold. "What the fuck are you talking about, Y/N?"

With a hiccup, you let out a whimper before your eyes slowly flutter shut, and you pass out.

The next morning, you wake up feeling like you've been hit by a truck.

You wince as you clamber out of bed, the bright light in the bathroom making you cringe while you brush your teeth. The only thing keeping you from hiding in bed is the smell of breakfast, which lures you downstairs and into the kitchen.

Bucky's at the stove, making pancakes.

"Good morning, Jay," You mumble, trying to remember the gap in your memories from last night. The last thing you remember is eating dinner with Bucky before he left for work.

"Morning," He replies, placing the last pancake onto the stack before turning off the gas and turning to face you.

You sit at the island while he slides over a glass of orange juice and some Advil. "Thank you," You whisper.

Bucky puts a couple of pancakes on your plate before serving himself. You're sipping on your juice when he finally speaks again. "So, how come you drank last night?" He asks you.

"Huh? Oh, I guess I figured I was home alone all night, so I had a couple of glasses," You suggest, trying to put the pieces together yourself.

"You said some fucked up shit," Bucky says as he cuts into his pancakes.

"I did? Oh, no, nothing too freaky, right?" You ask with a laugh.

He looks up to meet your eyes, no hint of humor in his. "You accused me of having an affair with Agatha," He tells you bluntly.

And just like that, it all comes rushing back. You remember exactly why you drank so much, and exactly why Bucky seems so upset.

"Oh," You utter dumbly, not knowing what else to say.

The silence that sits between you is cold and heavy. The kind you want desperately to fill with words, only you don't know which ones to use.

"Fairy... what the fuck?" Bucky utters, pain in his eyes. "Where did that come from?"

You bite your lip, wincing. "I just... you've been gone so much lately. Lying about where you are. And she wants you, I know she does. Sam told me the meeting with Novikov isn't until next month, and... it's not the first time you've lied to me about where you've been," You say, terrified.

He lets out a deep sigh as he processes your words. "It's... it's your birthday tomorrow," He says.

For a moment, you say nothing. And then the realization hits you harder than your hangover. Your birthday. He's been planning for it. With everyone going on with the businesses, you assumed you wouldn't be able to do anything special for the day - but how could you ever believe that Bucky would settle for less than special?

You slap your hands over your mouth and immediately burst into tears. Ugly sobs rattle through your chest, making your head hurt even more.

"Baby. Baby. Don't cry," He says as he walks around the counter.

"How- how could I ever think that of you?" You manage to choke out, your words almost unintelligible. "You're so perfect and I... I doubted you in the worst way. How could I do that to you?"

"Come here, my darling, it's alright," He assures you as he holds you tight, rocking you back and forth. He continues comforting you while your tears subdue, your breaths choppy as you sniffle.

He doesn't say anything, simply hugging you and stroking your hair, kissing your forehead, wiping away your tears. Once your sobs have ceased and your breathing is back to normal, he smiles down at you.

"Look at me. Marriage is scary, okay?" He begins. "We're both doing this for the first time. We're not gonna be perfect. All I can promise you is that I will never betray you-"

"You don't have to say that, Jamie," You cry. "You shouldn't need to say that."

"I want to say it," He assures you. "I want you to hear it. I may act stupid at times, or say the wrong thing-"

"You're never wrong, you're perfect," You cut in, clinging onto his shirt. "I'm evil."

"Evil?" He repeats with a scoff. "Baby, I know evil, okay? I've looked evil in the fucking eye. You are not that. You are my darling girl. My fairy. I- it's my fault for keeping secrets-"

"You were just trying to surprise me-"

"Still, I shouldn't have lied to your face," He says. "I felt sick whenever I did. Hated it. But... I just wanted to see your face when you saw it tomorrow."

Your face crumples again. "I ruined the surprise," You whine.

"You didn't ruin it; you still don't know what it is," Bucky points out. "I went too far with trying to keep it a secret. Ended up hurting you, which I never want to do."

"But I should've just trusted you," You say, shaking your head. "How could I think that of you?"

"I made it pretty easy for you to jump to that conclusion," He says, rubbing your shoulder. "I should've known you'd realize I was hiding something."

With a pout, you look up at him. "I'm sorry I ruined my surprise," You say.

He frowns down at you. "Hey, you don't know exactly what it is yet, do you?" He asks as his lips curl up. "You're still gonna be blown away, fairy. You deserve to be spoiled, especially on your birthday, and I'll make sure of it."

"You spoil me every day," You say with an eye roll.

"Because I love you every day," Bucky replies before placing a kiss on your shoulder. "Now, eat. My pancakes aren't as good when they're cold."

While he reaches out to grab his plate and takes a seat next to you, you turn to face him. "So, if you were planning my surprise this whole time... why did you have to speak to Agatha so late at night?" You wonder curiously. "She also seems to be awfully comfortable touching up on you."

With a bite of pancakes in his mouth, Bucky chews while smirking at you, a look of surprise on his face. When he swallows, he leans in. "Baby, are you jealous?" He asks, delight in his eyes.

Shooting him a glare, you put your fork down. "I don't get jealous, Barnes. I was irritated that she was touching my property," You correct him curtly.

"Your property?" He repeats with a laugh. "Fuck. You know it turns me on when you get all possessive, pretty girl."

"Well, stop, because I'm being serious," You say, poking his chest. "I don't want her grabbing your arm, hugging you, fucking giggling in your ear - calling you late at night. You're not her piece of meat. You're mine."

Bucky wraps his arm around you with a cheesy grin. "Keep talking like that, I'll need you to prove it right here and now," He grumbles against your lips.

You push him back with a scoff. "Get a fucking grip," You tell him sternly. "I need you to be serious. Why was she calling you so late? Why did I hear her laughing when you were at your fake Novikov meeting last night?"

He pulls back and drops the smirk, knowing you're not playing games. "Aggie-"

You throw him the coldest glare you can muster.

"Agatha," He corrects himself. "Was helping me plan your surprise."

"The fuck does an arms dealer have to do with birthdays?" You question him incredulously.

"She has a lot of good contacts-"

"What are you gonna do, shoot me?" You ask, to which he snorts.

"No, baby, she's just very well connected, even more so than me," He tells you. "And I know she can be a little... forward, but I swear to you, she never crossed the line. I'd have cut her off the second she tried anything."

Letting out a huff, you look away from him.

"I love you," Bucky says, squeezing you tightly in his grip. "I love you so, so much. And I can't wait to see your face tomorrow."

"Y'know what I want most for my birthday?" You turn and ask him, to which he nods eagerly.

"Anything," He replies instantly. "Name it and it's yours, my love."

"For her to be gone," You tell him bluntly. "Out of New York."

He laughs, but you're not joking. "Fairy, I know it isn't ideal, but I need to finish this deal with her," He explains. "Just one more week, and Chicago will be putty in my hands. And then I never have to see her again."

Maintaining your glare, you sigh. "Fine. Whatever," You huff.

"Now, what was it you were saying about me being yours?" Bucky asks, nestling his face in your neck. "What did you call me, again? Your property? Your piece of meat?"

Your hands rest on top of his which stroke your hips, and he pressed soft kisses to your neck, not stopping until you let out a moan, at which point you can feel his grin again your skin.

"Why don't you prove it, fairy?"

eek sorry to cockblock but this was getting reallllly long (also writing smut feels like a chore rn)

hope you enjoyed this installment! also someone requested a jealous!bucky which I'm SO EXCITED TO WRITE so stay tuned for that <3

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tweedcola · 13 days ago

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Thank you for reblogging!

Just a lil domestic drabble with Steve and Bucky

Word Count: 372

Warnings: mentions of sex

Steve comes home in the early hours of the morning to the entire apartment smelling like sex. Clothes are scattered about without rhyme or reason but he makes his way to the bedroom where you and Bucky are draped over each other in a seemingly blissful slumber, his vibranium arm securing you to him protectively.

Bucky stirs when Steve steps into the room, his enhanced hearing causing him to wake while you continue to snooze.

Steve sheds his clothes and slides into the bed next to you, opening his arms as you instinctively turn and snuggle closer to him, even in your sleep. Steve's heart thuds desperately as you bury your head into his neck, his adoration for you almost painful in its intensity.

"Everything okay?" Bucky asks Steve under his breath.

"All fine," is the succinct answer. Now Steve's home he needs to focus his energy on his people. He's been told that a work-life balance is important. "How's our girl been?"

"Insatiable," Bucky answers, with a sly grin. "Can't believe I'm saying this punk, but I'm so glad there are two of us. Wouldn't be able to keep up with her like this all of the time."

"She tire you out old man?" Steve asks with a wicked cackle, stopping sharply when you shift against his chest in protest of the movement.

"Stevie, you were gone for 36 hours and we had sex 12 times." Bucky delivers the statistic completely deadpan, but Steve lets out another quiet snort, pulling you in closer to him before resting his hand on Bucky's hip.

"Sounds to me like a complaint Buck," Steve murmurs, stroking his thumb against your temple and marvelling at your ability to sleep through the entire conversation.

Bucky reaches over and shoves at Steve's unoccupied shoulder, causing him to rock back slightly, but even with you in his hold you don't wake, simply letting out a little snuffling sound before pressing your face against his chest, still slumbering away.

"Jerk," Bucky hisses playfully before snuggling back into your sleeping form. You let out a content sigh and the two men share a fond look and a soft kiss over your head before settling down either side of you for the night.

Hope you enjoyed!

Please check out my other fics here!

#thank you!#omg thank you #stucky x reader #steve x bucky x reader

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tweedcola · 14 days ago

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Bucky Barnes + Manspreading

Bonus:

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tweedcola · 15 days ago

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Part One

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader: College/Camgirl AU

Summary: You're secret life as MoxieMinx, incognito camgirl, definitely has it's advantages. Your favorite client, Cleansheet24, just happens to be the best.

Word count: ~3.2K

Warnings: Both Bucky and the reader are over 18 and you should be too. Minors DNI. If you are not 18+ you do not have my consent to interact with this content. Camgirl-client relationship. Sex work. Voyeurism and exhibitionism, mutual masturbation, sex toy usage, dom/sub dynamics. Sub!Bucky. Please let me know if I missed anything else.

Author's Notes: This has existed in the back of my brain as a vague thought for sometime and it's just been sitting there stewing. And apparently now is the time I'm going to do something with it. Partially, I'm giving myself a kick in the butt so I can participate in Hot Bucky Summer hosted by @buckybarnesevents. This one is for week 4 (even though I clearly missed the deadline) with "A" for "Anonymous". I'm hoping to get part two out today as well, so I can still count if for Week 5's prompt 🤞Please know that I'm a slow writer and I'm only able to post two parts in such a short timeline because I backstock my chapters, future chapters will likely be much slower. Please bear with me and enjoy!

A Wednesday night sometime in the fall semester

Air hisses sharply between your teeth as a particularly delicious jolt rocks through your body. It is quickly followed by a second and a sudden “Ah!” bursts from your lips. You don't even have to play it up to know that he heard you. You're always loud for him, no theatrics needed.

He groans as your heels dig into the bed and your back arches. Your orgasm is approaching fast and you're so fucking ready for it. But you don't want him to come yet, so you back off. You lift your fingers just far enough off your clit to catch your breath.

You turn your eyes to the screen, where he strokes himself in time with the rock of your hips.

“Hands off now, baby,” you command, “no touching yourself.”

He complies immediately, though there's no mistaking his anguish as he moans.

“I know baby, I know. It's so hard, it is. But you're doing so good. Just like always.”

From the flex of his muscles and the play of the shadows, you can tell that he nodding, even though you can't see his face. You never can, he keeps his camera angled down so that you can only see from the bottom of his throat to roughly his knees, with his glorious cock a prominent feature in the middle. You don't mind that you can't see above his neck, it's a common practice for clients and you respect his need for anonymity. Besides, he can't see your face either, not really. Not with the black silk and lace mask and your collection of distracting, jewel colored wigs.

A true feeling of pride feels your chest when you see the way his knuckles blanch white as he grips his thighs. His cock is leaking messily and angry red, and still he follows your order without complaint.

“Fuck, you are good, aren't you?” You breath out in awe.

His capacity for control is truly impressive, better than anyone you've ever seen. Which is one of the reasons that you sometimes push him to come quickly and often just to see him let go of his obviously overlearned habit of self-denial. But other times, you use that control to your advantage, to have him hold out just the right amount to make the reward all that much better. Those times, what you're giving him is the certainty that his sacrifice and discipline will be worth it. In the real world, hard work doesn't always pay off, but in your private video chats, it always does.

“Just a little longer, baby, I promise.” You lick your lips when his cock bounces at the sound of your voice. “But I can't have you distracted right now, because first, I get to come. And you get to watch. Like I know you want to.”

“God, yes, please,” he begs, his voice slightly distorted- another privacy tactic your clients sometimes utilize. Thankfully his choice of software leaves his voice still sounding more human than robotic. “Please, miss.”

“Shh, baby, shh. I've got you,” you begin to rub yourself again. The tension rebuilds quickly and your back bows. “I've got you.”

Rolling to your side, you keep your legs open so that he can see exactly what you're doing to yourself. Many of your clients prefer to have your cunt angled directly at the camera in moments like this but not him. He once told you that he really likes watching your face when you come. He said it shyly, like you might think it was an embarrassing thing to admit, and you secretly adored him for it. You didn't tell him how endearing you found it, he might think you were teasing him. Instead, you simply assured him that you were more than happy to have him watch you any way that he liked.

His ragged breaths carry clearly through your speakers as he watches you. You moan and gasp and whine just like you would if you were alone, holding nothing back as you quicken your movements. Your hips roll into your hand as your fingers press down and soon you're on the brink again.

This time you don't stop the wave from cresting. You shout something indecipherable even to you as you shatter into a million pieces and ecstasy rolls through you. With expert strokes of your fingers, you draw out your orgasm as long as you can, keeping the waves of pleasure going until your legs quiver and the ache to be filled is too much to bear.

Blurry-eyed, you look back at him through the screen and see that he's trembling. His cock head is purple now and even messier than before.

“You're doing amazing, baby,” you gasp. Blindly you pat the bedding until you find the toy you got out just for this exact moment. It's your favorite dildo, and by no coincidence, it is the one sized and shaped most like his dick in your collection. It's ridged and teal with a pearlescent swirl in the silicon and it still isn't as pretty as his.

“Get ready, baby,” you say as you dip your fingers inside yourself, then use your own slick to coat the head of the toy. “Spit in your hand, I want you to feel how wet I am.”

He does as he's told but doesn't touch his cock yet, waiting for your next command.

You press the tip of the toy to your entrance.

“Rub your palm over your head.”

He does as you say and you maneuver the toy so that the head circles your entrance.

“Yes, that's it, baby, now make a fist.” He does. “You ready?”

“Yes, yes,” he pants.

“Time to split me open.” This is your favorite game, fucking yourself with the dildo that you secretly named after him, while he strokes himself to match the depth and speed of each thrust of the toy. It's the closest either of you will ever get to the real thing and you relish every second of it.

“Do exactly like I do. I want you inside of me, but slowly so I can feel every inch.”

Just as you said, you breach yourself slowly, achingly so, and watch as he pushes his head into the tight hole of his fist. He moans desperately, but matches your measured pace. As you push the toy deeper- offering filthy praises for his control- he grips himself with both hands, one being insufficient for his length to feel fully sheathed.

Once the toy bottoms out, you hold it there for a long minute before taking mercy on him and yourself. You command him to start thrusting hard and fast. With as much coherence as you can manage, you tell him exactly how he's making you feel. You writhe and rock, imagining him, not just inside you, but on top of you, his perfectly sculpted chest pressing against yours as he destroys your cunt with his gorgeous cock.

“I'm so close, baby, so close!” You shout.

“Oh fuck, me too. I- I-”

“Do it baby, now! Fill me with your come,” You shout mere seconds before your orgasm barrels through you.

You come so hard that the edges of your vision start to turn black but you fight to keep your eyes open and focused. He's coming too and you can't bear to miss a second of it. His cock pulses in his hand a split second before his seed spurts from the tip in thick, white ropes. He isn't cupping his head to contain the mess like he sometimes does and come splatters across his chest and thighs.

Saliva pools in your mouth and the sound of his groans, long drawn out and startled like he's discovering climax for the first time, makes your cunt clench eagerly. The sudden spasm pushes you over the edge again and you moan.

You once read that people's brains treat fictional characters the same way they do real people, to the point that their feelings about them are as real as they would be for the people in their lives. Your cunt feels the same way about this toy. To your body, the length buried deep inside you is his cock and you swear you can feel it pulse and paint your insides.

But that's an illusion. When you eventually pull the toy free from your cunt, the only juices on it are your own. But you brush off your disappointment and focus on the good instead, which is easy when he wheezes out a laugh.

“Jesus, that was-” his hand disappears at the top of the frame and you can tell that he's running it over his face by the way his breath briefly muffles- “that was intense.”

His voice is awed and you laugh happily because you feel it too.

“Yeah, it was.”

You lay sprawled on your back for a few long minutes and he makes no move to clean himself up. The comfortable silence is nice, but you know you can't just stay like this for too long, floating blissfully in the post-coital haze. That kind of thing is for lovers, not what the two of you are. Still, the intimacy of it all isn't a complete fabrication, and you never like the end of a session to feel like the conclusion of a business deal.

You roll slowly back onto your side and prop your head on your hand. You watch him with genuine affection as he reclines limply in his chair and tries to get his heart rate back under control.

You giggle warmly when he looks down at the mess he made and groans good-naturedly.

“Hey there, Mr. Not-so-Cleansheet,” you tease.

“I don't think my sheets have been clean since I met you,” he laughs. You smile smugly as warm pride fills you.

You used to think that his user name- Cleansheet24- was an ironic reference to the mess sex makes of your bed. But then, one time, when you were hanging out with Sam and some of his friends, one of the soccer guys used the term. When you asked, Bucky explained that a “clean sheet” is a soccer term for when you win a game without letting the other team score. And suddenly the username made sense to you in a new way.

The fact that Cleansheet either does or did play soccer at the university you attend was not a surprise to you. The tattoo on his left pec with the university's wolf mascot superimposed over a soccer ball made that pretty obvious. Though you never asked him about it- you never ask your clients about the little things they accidentally reveal about their identities- you assume that he doesn’t bother to cover it up because almost all of the guys on the team get them. There are roughly twenty-five players on the active roster and countless alum. Even considering the guys you could automatically count out for obvious reasons like height and skin color, it would be hard for you to guess his identity solely on a tattoo. And that would be if you were actively trying, which you aren’t and never will because you don’t breach the client-performer boundaries that you created. Even if sometimes you want to.

“Good,” you reply, “I like it when you make a mess and this one-” you gesture with your index finger to indicate the still wet splotches- “is especially impressive.”

He laughs again, a little shyly this time.

“Yeah, that was a big fucking orgasm.”

“I know. I felt it.”

You wish that you could see his face just this once. You think you hear a note of pride when he softly asks, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.

“I’m glad,” he says, “I like that you enjoy it too.”

“I really, really do.”

“Cool,” he says with real pleasure. After a long beat of easy silence, he clears his throat. “So, um-” he starts to rub his hands down his thighs out of habit, but stops when he remembers that they're smeared with come- “I'll see you this weekend?”

“Yep, same slutty bat-time, same slutty bat-channel.”

“Great,” he laughs. “And uh, next Wednesday too?”

“Of course, this private session is reserved for you as long as you want it.”

“I want it.”

“Good, me too.”

You can tell that he's pleased and you wonder if he's blushing.

After a beat, he says, “I should probably go clean up this Pollock knock-off.”

You laugh.

“You say that like you're joking, but that's definitely art,” you tease. “Profitable too. If you took a picture of yourself like this and tried to sell it, you'd be amazed how much you could get for it. Trust me, I'm in the business, I would know.”

“I'll consider it,” he says with a laugh, but you know he's only joking. You are too. But also, you're not wrong. Honestly, you would pay good money to have a picture of him like this. But you have a strict no screenshots or recordings policy for your clients and you follow the same rule for yourself. Boundaries and trust go both ways.

“Well, thank you, as always.” You nod, acknowledging his words and he goes on. “I guess, good bye, and see you next time.”

“See you next time, baby.” You lean forward and click the end session button.

Sometimes you're tempted to linger when it's time to sign off with Cleansheet24, but you never let yourself. It’s too risky, the first step down what would quickly become a slippery slope. Especially with him. Because even though you’ve never admitted it out loud, he’s definitely your favorite.

You flop backwards onto your bed and stare at the ceiling. Your thighs and cunt are still sticky with drying slick and lube and you’ve got things to do, but you let yourself relax for a few minutes, enjoying the lingering satisfaction that comes from a particularly good session.

Two years of doing this and they haven’t all been good, but you think that you’ve been pretty lucky as far as these things go. Early on, things were rockier. When you were trying to find your footing in a new space and didn’t always know the best way to go about it. Luckily, you found your way to a Reddit group for camgirls like yourself and connected with some really great people.

One of the best bits of advice you ever received- besides how to spot and cut off potentially problematic clients early- was from a blogger who went by the name VelvetGoldie. She told you not to fall into the trap of doing things you don't want to because you're afraid you won't be able to drum up clients as a new performer. She also told you that you didn't have to be like everybody else to be successful. She said, “Figure out what you are about and then stick to it.”

Once you knew that, it was a lot easier to set expectations and find clients who were a good fit for you. You were also able to have fun with it, just like you'd hoped when you decided to do it in the first place. You got into it because rent is weirdly expensive in the little city where you go to school, but you still wanted to enjoy it.

One live free chat and two group private sessions on the weekends and a handful of individual private sessions a week. That’s it. Some of your blogger acquaintances think you’re nuts for not doing any recorded content. You get where they’re coming from, you do. You know there's more money to be had in posting videos, but you're not into that. Mostly because you go to great lengths to hide your identity. The mask and wig obviously, but also carefully drawn-on beauty marks in exactly the same places every time. Changing not just your bedding but also hiding your headboard and bedside table beneath a push and artfully draped blanket. Keeping the rest of your bedroom furniture off screen and any part of your room that is within frame personal decor free. You even use lights and a few tricks you learned from a high school girlfriend who did tech crew in drama to alter the color of your walls. After all that work, you don't want some over obsessed subscriber watching and rewatching your videos, looking for some clue you may have overlooked that could give away your identity.

Besides, doing things your way works. You have a very loyal group of regulars that you actually like. Plus, by keeping your content limited to live streams only, you’ve unintentionally turned yourself into a rare and highly sought after commodity. One that people are willing to pay good money to have access to. Roughly a dozen hours a week of work between performances and planning and your rent is more than covered.

Eventually, you force yourself to get up. Taking your wig and mask off, you make sure they’re clean before laying them aside and getting to work dismantling MoxieMinx’s fictional world. You clear the bed of toys and lube bottles, then pull the sheets off to be washed. The velvety blanket and silky ties you use to cover your headboard go next, then the lights you have strategically placed along your backdrop wall. Next, you take apart your camera and ring light set up. Lastly, you take the toys and give them a thorough cleaning in the bathroom before rubbing them gently clean with a microfiber towel. When all of that is done, the toys and “costume” go into the wheeled carry-on you bought just for this purpose, one with a good lock so that no one can accidentally stumble onto your tools of the trade or your secret identity.

Just before you close the case, you grab the teal dildo impulsively and toss it back on the bed.

You’re still thinking about Cleansheet24. You know you shouldn’t be, but there’s just something about him. You’ve never been tempted by a client before. Turned on? Sure. But tempted to bend your own rules? Never.

Not that you will bend those rules, you remind yourself, as you roll your bag into the back corner of your closet. That’s something you definitely can’t do.

Having a personal relationship with a client is a huge no-no and the kind of mess that you cannot afford. You haven’t even let yourself date non-clients since you started your account because dating makes everything more complicated.

So this temptation that you’re feeling could never, ever go anywhere. You know this. That said, you can’t see what harm there is letting yourself fantasize a bit about the mystery man behind the username with the perfectly sculpted abs and beautifully suckable cock. And, you think as you grab the dildo off the bed and head to the bathroom, there’s no harm in using your toy’s suction cup feature to fuck yourself in the shower and pretend that it’s him.

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tweedcola · 16 days ago

Text

Tequila

Jake Jensen x reader

Summary: You run into your gym acquaintance Jake at an arcade bar.

Follow-up to Electrolyte but can be read as a stand-alone.

Word count: ~3.9K

Warnings: Swearing, controlled alcohol consumption

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Sounds of arcade games and taps of people jabbing at the controls mingled with the bustle of the bar and the selection of pop music. You nursed your drink, keeping an eye on your friend. She is leaning against one of the games across the bar, chatting up a cute guy. As you turn back to the bar, a something catches your eye. It’s that bulky frame that you have become familiar over the last several weeks. Jake cuts a forlorn figure against the whizzing and neon of the row of pinball machines. He’s hunched over half-heartedly jabbing the controls. He shouldn’t be sad. Before you know it you’re ordering another drink and walking over to greet him.

“I don’t know what you prefer, but you look like you need something strong,” you say offering him the drink.

“Hey, it’s you!” Jake looks up, a grin brightening his features. “You’re… here,” he finishes lamely.

You return an amused smile.

“What are you doing here?” he manages as he accepts the drink.

“I exist outside the gym, if you can believe it,” you pause. “My friend dragged me here. She’s on the rebound and she needed a hype man.” You point at your friend and her cute guy who have now moved to the bar. “By the looks of it, I might be relieved of my duties soon.”

“Your friend came here for a rebound?” Jake puzzles.

“She swears it’s the easiest place to pickup and be picked up. She’s not wrong. It’s easier to flirt and make overtures when you ask someone to help you with a game.”

“Oh.”

Jake looks like a man reliving several missed opportunities. His shoulders droop as he takes a big gulp of his drink. You would have laughed if he didn’t look so goddamn miserable.

“You always sadly poke at pinball machines on Friday nights?” you ask

“I was supposed to take my niece to Disneyland. It’s her birthday,” Jake mumbles so low that you almost don’t catch it. “But something urgent came up at work and I had to cancel. My sister took her but it was supposed to be special for her tenth birthday.

It’s my birthday too. My friends are all traveling for the summer or for work and I didn’t feel like moping at home.”

“Happy birthday, Jake.” You clink your glass against his. “I’m sorry your plans didn’t work out.”

“At least my niece is having a good time.” Jake shrugs.

You are no stranger to lonely birthdays. The curse of being born around a major holiday your family does not celebrate and living several thousand miles from your family. You had spent the last few birthdays with giant pot of your favorite soup and a good book but sharing that pot of soup would be more satisfying.

“I’m sure we can still salvage this evening. You like tequila? Hold this, I’ll be right back.” You push your drink into his hands as he nods.

You return several minutes later with a tumbler filled to the brim with tokens and a tray of shots.

“There’s enough tokens to play every game here twice over.” You say, holding up the tokens.

“Are you trying to give us alcohol poisoning?” Jake asks eyeing the tray.

“Only if you win enough,” you grin. “What do you say?”

“Which one are we going start with?” he responds, a competitive gleam in his eye.

You start with pinball, which you are both almost evenly matched. Jake won by a hair margin and picks Mortal Kombat. You don’t think you’ve ever been beaten so spectacularly before. You were just smashing buttons, piling trash talk which delights Jake to no end and hoping for the best. Then you move on to Sega Rally, a racing game.

“You ready to eat my fumes, Jensen?” you say as you settle into the seat, picking your car.

“I’m not worried,” Jake says. “Did you already forget the ass whooping I just gave you?”

“We’ll see,” you grin.

The game starts and you’re off. You take the lead quite easily. Racing games were your forte as a teen. It’s a medium track, plenty of turns and a a few brutally sharp ones. Jake lags behind by two spots but is gaining on you.

“Keep up, slow poke,” you heckle as you clear a sharp turn and Jake falls behind a spot.

By end of the last lap, Jake is right behind you. You are hard pressed to keep your lead. It’s the last stretch and he passes you!

“Aha! Eat dust!” Jensen whoops

It’s short-lived, he turns just a smidge too wide on the last turn before the stretch to the finish line and gets bumped into the wall by one of the other cars. You are quick to take the lead.

“Womp womp!” you smirk as you pass him by and cross the finish line.

“Well done,” Jake says reaching for a shot and offering it to you. “Drink up, I wanna go again.”

“Okay you pick the track this time.”

Jake ends up picking the hardest track. The one with all sharp turns and elevation changes.

“Really, Jensen?” you say. “You’re gonna be kissing either the turf or the wall the entire time.”

“Go big or go home,” Jake shrugs.

“You’ll be going home with tread marks.”

The race starts. It takes you the first few turns to get a handle on clearing it. Most of the turns are so sharp that the only way to clear them is to drift. By the third lap, you’ve managed to figure out drifting and gaining the lead.

“How the heck are you doing that?” Jake exclaims

“You gotta drift on the turns,” you say “Hit the brakes.”

“I am hitting the brakes!!”

You sneak a peek of his monitor and he fails to clear the turn. He’s not crashing, but the turn is way too wide.

“Make a sharper turn and then hit the brakes!”

“Oh shit!”

You smile as he clears the next turn but it’s too late. You cross the finish line.

You’ve moved on to a shooting game, Ghost town which requires you to shoot down lines of gravestones. Jake made an impressive display of hitting most of the gravestones while your aim left much to be desired, managing to topple only two. All it took was a ‘how is your aim that good?’ from you and Jake took it upon himself to help your technique and he was definitely wording that generously.

“Well, you gotta hold the rifle pressed against the crook of your shoulder,” Jake directs.

You adjust the gun and look to him for confirmation.

“No, a little to the right,” Jake says, hands fluttering around your shoulders. “No, not that tight, just…”

“Jake, you can touch me,” you say pinning him with an amused look.

“Oh thank God,” he melts as a hand comes to rest on your arm. “Oh no, not like that, I didn’t mean oh thank god I can touch you. I meant it’s just easier to fix your form, not that I don’t want to —”

You’d been surrounded by enough awkward nerds in this lifetime to tell who was dangerous. This babbling hunk — hunk?! — Was not one of them.

“It’s fine,” you stop his rambling. “Just show me. “

“Right.”He says rubbing the back of his neck.

Jake adjusts your hold on the rifle. You try your best to focus on his advise and not on the warmth of his hand or how delicately he’s correcting your grip on the barrel. It’s nearly not as difficult as ignoring his looming form behind you. What breaks you is when he runs his long fingers on the top of the barrel, pointing out how to aim while his face is next your, his breath warming your cheeks. You just wanted to cheer up this man who brought you electrolytes sometimes and made pleasant conversation just cause you saved his glasses from being crushed once. What fresh hell is this?

“You ready?” Jake asks, feeding tokens into the machine.

You nod. It’s as ready as you’ll get tonight. You hit the start button and the gravestones come up. Squinting, you take aim and pull the trigger. You hit the mark!

“Oh that worked!” you cheer, lining up another shot. You manage to hit four more in a row.

“Look at you go,” Jake says. “You’re a true natural. A few more rounds and I’ll be outgunned.”

You mumble a thanks as your face heats at the compliment. The accuracy of your shots this round improved incredibly but you still spent more time than you liked taking aim. The timer runs out and you managed to get eleven of the gravestones, a vast improvement from the meagre two from your last round.

“That was amazing!” Jake throws an arm around your shoulder as you set the gun down. “I’m counting that as a win.” He offers you a shot which you accept.

“Want to go another round, now that playing field is level?”

“Oh you’re on,” Jake grins

It’s a close match. Jake is faster to set him aim and more accurate. There is some strange satisfaction in watching him shoot down the gravestones in quick succession, almost never missing. You lose by two points, but the way Jake’s smile lights up his entire face as he claims victory, you’re winning your game too.

Aw fuck

You don’t have time to linger on that thought as Jake drags you to another shooting game he says you’re gonna love. He is pushing the handgun shaped control into your palms and correcting your hold. He rattles off tips on taking aim and starts the game. Then you’re suddenly on to the next shooting game. They are all close games and by the third one, you manage to beat Jake. He lets out gleeful hoot and envelopes you in a bear hug.

You knew how muscular he is. You snuck glances at gym, secretly admiring the solid lines of his frame. There’s knowing and then there’s being smushed up against said evidence. Then there’s the lingering scent of citrus and woods that leaves you light-headed in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol.

You both stumble through some more games after that. Competition falls to the wayside and you are tag teaming to set the high score. This is the most fun you’ve had in this bar. Jake is flushed and giggling and when his eyes meet yours, your heart swells — unbidden.

You slump in one of the corner booths in the back of bar with the last of your tokens and glasses of water. Jake has gone to acquire some food. You are skating that pleasant line between buzzed and intoxicated as you take sips of water. Nothing has tasted as good as this or the felt a good as the cool glass against your cheek. You take a moment to check your phone. There are two messages from your friend. One saying she was leaving with the cute guy followed by text not to drag your feet with hot nerd.

You really didn’t know what you had expected of Jake but this was delightful. He was fun and considerate where it counted. Competitive too but he never let it get in the way of fun nor was there even a single moment where he made you feel like you had to tone down your competence. And that was rare these days.

“You doing all right?” Jake’s voice interrupts your thoughts.

He’s set down a huge plate of nachos as he slides into the booth.

“Yeah, just taking a moment,” you say. “Having fun?”

You fall into easy conversation as you pick at the food. Jake may have been steering your conversations over electrolytes but you are less guarded participant. You ask him about his niece and he asks you about life, nothing you aren’t willing to share but things no one has ever thought ask you. Before you know it, you’re debating depictions of the Cybertronian civil war in various iterations of Transformers, and elvish family trees. In between the words and the bites of food, you can’t help but be taken by the way his brows pinch when making an empathic point or his fluttering hands. Then there’s the way the way he soaks in your words, as if they might change the course of his life. If you aren’t careful, this might be more of a date than you are ready for.

“So what’s your pick for the last game?” you ask shaking the remaining tokens.

Both of you have demolished the plate of food between you and downed at least glass and a half of water. There’s just enough for one last game.

“Back to Sega Rally? I can’t leave without figuring out the drifting,” Jake says

Turns out, you only have enough for 1 player.

“No, wait,” Jake stops you as you head to get more tokens. “Tag team?” he asks hopefully.

“You’re taking the wheel. Your turns can use some work,” you say with a grin.

It takes some maneuvering to fit you both in the car seat. Small mercy that it is deep seat but you still end up on Jake’s lap, with your feet on the pedals and engulfed by his ridiculously beefy arms on the wheel. It’s not comfortable but there is just enough tequila fueled determination between the two of you to make it work.

The race starts and it begins well until the first turn where the car spectacularly runs off track, sending you both into a fit of giggles. Somehow you both mange to gather yourselves. Bringing your hands to the wheel, you guide Jake through the next sharp turn. After that, it’s a blur of giggles, ‘hit the brakes’, and swearing. You are tossed between his arms like a damn ping pong ball in the world’s tiniest court. It’s a small wonder you manage to pump brakes in time to drift or even mange to keep a steady foot on the accelerator. Did you even manage to drift? You can’t really tell.

Your car finishes fifth. Jake collapses back into the chair, taking you with him. You sag against him as you both catch your breaths, watching the replay of your race.

“So you learn to drift then?” you let loose a small laugh.

“Who knows?” Jake says in your ear, hooking his chin on your shoulder.

Neither of you move. Energy transitions from excitable to mellow. You lean your head against his as his arms circle your waist. Your hands come to rest on his, fingers tracing that one vein that runs across the back of his hand. It is cozy, it is comfortable, and your never want to leave.

Jake waits with you at the bar as you wait for the bartender to bring you the cheque. When she returns, you put your card down but Jake is quick to replace it with his own.

You were ready with your second card in hand. It wasn’t your first game of pick up the tab hot hands. You swipe his card and put down yours. You quickly gather up the folder and wave it out of reach and at closest bar staff. Jake scrambles over you trying to reach it and he almost succeeds as the bartender turns her attention to you.

“Don’t take let him pay, it’s his birthday,” you say, trying put any distance you can between you and Jake but he has you firmly pinned against the bar.

The bartender’s gaze flits between the two of you with an amused smile as she finally decides to pluck the folder from your hand. You absently lean into his side as you wait. Jake brings his arm around your shoulder, pulling you into him with a reassuring squeeze, as if to say ‘I have you’

Your walls are a mile high. Past romances haven’t been kind to you and you have all but stopped dating entirely, content with the life and community you have built for yourself. But in this moment you think that your walls could come down. Maybe for someone like Jake.

You are pulled out of your thoughts as the bartender returns with your card and a freakishly large shot. It’s got at least three fingers worth of amber liquid, topped with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles.

“It’s a birthday shot,” she smiles as she slides it across the bar. “On the house. Enjoy your night.”

You stare at it, skeptical. It looks whimsical and sweet. You look to Jake who is looking at it with delighted grin. You soften.

“We can share,” Jake offers, nudging it towards you.

Curiosity gets the better of you and you take a small sip. It’s the sweetest bourbon you’ve ever had and the whipped cream is infused with it too. You crinkle your nose. It’s too sweet for you.

“Is it bad?”

“No, no,” you push it back towards him. “It’s just really sweet. Not for me.”

You busy yourself in signing off the receipt and putting away your card while Jake downs the rest of the shot.

“You look almost as pretty as the moon.”

You are standing outside waiting for your cab. It turns out both of live on the same block and decide to split a cab home. As you have gotten progressively mellower, the birthday shot seems to have sent Jake in a very different direction. A bad flirt, not that he was any better sober.

“That’s a street lamp.” You bite back a grin.

“And you’re almost as pretty.”

You snort. Smooth Jensen, real smooth.

“You don’t think it’s true?” Jake sounds genuinely offended.

“I think that last shot really did you in,” you respond, patting his arm.

Before he can respond, the car pulls up. Jake opens the door and ushers you in before getting in on the other side.

The car pulls up in front of Jake’s house. You pull him into a hug before he exits the car, lumbering towards his porch. You ask the driver to wait a moment. Just to make sure he got into the house. He seemed pretty loopy. He trips over the sidewalk but manages to recover. He makes it to his door but then he’s frantically digging through his pockets.

You are starting to worry that you’d plied him with too much liquor.

You step out the car, thanking the driver. You are only at the end of the block, and it would be a poor end to the night if Jake ended up sleeping on his porch tonight.

You’re a little annoyed with yourself for getting him this drunk. Well, it’s not your fault really, or his. That last triple shot was the culprit but you are still peeved and tried and just want to crash in your bed.

“What’s wrong?” you ask as climb up the steps of his porch.

“I can’t find my keys,” he says, patting his pockets.

It’s the first time you notice that he is wearing cargo pants. There are many pockets. Many unnecessary pockets. Fan-fucking-tastic!

“Let me help,” you sigh.

You reach for the pockets lower on his legs, and pat them and move up to his thighs. Empty, empty, empty!

“Woah woah, I only let people who buy me dinner frisk me. But for you I’ll make an exception,”

“Great, honored. Where the are your keys, Jensen?”

He raises an eyebrow suggestively. Any sleaze is undercut by his dopey grin. That stupid smile on his stupid face is what got you rummaging through his pants. You could have just bought him a drink and gone home. Fucking awkward nerds with big hearts. Just how many pockets do his pants have? Are new ones just manifesting to spite you?

You finally find it tucked in a zippered inner pocket in one of his pockets on his thigh. They are like several keys and a bunch of security keys on this thing. How did he miss this monstrosity rattling around in his pants? You don’t say that out loud.

“Why are there so many keys?” you grouse as you drop it into his hands. “C’mon open the door. I wanna go home.”

Thankfully, Jake has just enough wits to find the right key but not enough to slot it into the lock. After the third failed attempt, you gently take the key from him. He stills under your touch. His gaze slowly rakes up your arms and lays heavy on you face. He leans against the door studying you unlock his door as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

“What?” you turn to him, hand on the knob.

“You’re so grumpy when you’re being kind,” he says a fond smile spreading on his face “It’s sort of cute.”

Just what was in that birthday shot? He is pushing off the door and cleaving closer to you. You’re somehow too sober yet not sober enough for this.

“It’s okay, I can keep a secret, cranky girl,” His lips descend on your forehead, pressing a kiss. Then the next thing you know, his arms are around you. “Thank you for turning my day around. I had such a fun time with you.”

“It felt wrong to see you so sad,” you say hugging him back. “I had fun too.”

“Do you want to come in?”

Not yet. Maybe one day. What a loaded question. You pull back to meet his eyes. He looks back at you with a blissed out grin and an earnest intent to stretch your time together. Ugh can this man stop being so sweet for a hot minute? And also being this ridiculously hot while you are lobbing impossible requests to the void. He is not making it easy for you.

“I should be getting back.”

“Okay,” he says but he doesn’t let go. Neither do you. “How are you getting home, Cranks?”

That nickname out of anyone else’s mouth would have been insulting but it falls so sweetly from his tongue that it holds no meaning other than his teasing affection for you. And he looks so damn near proud of it too.

“I’m gonna walk. It’s not far,” you say.

“Let me walk you.”

“How are you going to get your door open again?” you tease. “No, it’s really not that far. It’s just at the end of the block. You can even see it from your porch.” You point out the corner building on the other side of the street.

Jake considers eyeing the corner of your block. He still hasn’t let go yet.

“Will you at least let me be on the phone with you?” he asks.

You nod. He reluctantly lets go of you to fish out his phone. You punch in your number and hand it back.

“Well I’ll be off then.” You turn to leave, then you are turning back to him, leaning up to brush your lips against his cheek.

You manage to cross the street before your phone vibrates. You look across to see Jake waving at you, with his phone pressed against his ear. Oh it wasn’t just a line to get your number. You answer and he stays on the line with you until you reach your building. You unlock the door and give him a wave before you go in.

“I’m home. Good night, birthday boy,” You say before you hang up.

Okay, taking the leap! I'm wading into the world of writing reader fics now!

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tweedcola · 16 days ago

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if you’re someone who has to wear glasses every day that makes them basically the most important item you own which means you really gotta show those fuckers who’s boss just toss them everywhere and knock them off things and roll over them in bed at least twice a week

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tweedcola · 16 days ago

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i just need to lay in bed and have a soft make out session with bucky on top of me

Its moments like these where he's his softest — most vulnerable and gentle in his love for you. With rough hands in soft touches and the tickle of his beard against your soft cheeks.

He pulls your leg by the crook of your knee over his hip. Stroking his hand against your smooth skin back and forth before cupping the fat of your ass, squeezing and spreading the curve of it.

You moan into his mouth and his hot tongue strokes against your own as he moans back. Its tantalizing and so incredibly intimately domestic that you shiver and Bucky pulls back to giggle at you almost prideful.

"So sensitive," he strokes his hand down the smooth skin of your thigh again, humming at the touch of your goosebumps and the way you reach for another kiss.

His lips find yours again, plush and soft against your own, the heat of his mouth makes you keen and arch into him — your breasts pushing up against his warm chest.

Bucky rolls himself on top of you, resting his full weight onto you and holding your face with his hands, stroking the pads of his thumbs against your cheeks as he continues to kiss you.

He grinds his hips into yours, thr bulge of his cock pressing against your clit through your panties in the most delicious way possible.

"Oh fuck, Bucky," you coo, scratching your nails up the nape of his neck and threading them through his chocolate hair.

He hums, pressing kisses to the curve of your jaw down to the column of your neck, biting and nipping at the skin there. "Gotta get going for the party soon," Bucky mumbles against your sticky skin.

You whine at that, arching into him once more.

"Dont start." Is all he says, cupping your jaw sharply with one hand. He looks you over, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth at the way your swimsuit cups your pretty tits and peeks out from beneath your tight jean shorts.

You give a little wiggle just because –watching his eyes glaze over as the plush of you jiggle under him.

Bucky cups his hard on through his swim shorts, navy blue with white strings that you reach for playfully, tempting him as you begin to pull them down over his hips.

He grabs your wrist with one hand, "what did I just tell you?"

You smile sheepishly up at him, stroking the arch of your foot up his thigh, "want you so bad, Buck," you whisper, plush lips pulled up between your teeth.

He promptly ignores you, pulling the strap of your bathing suit up to reveal your breast beneath the fabric before letting it snap back against your skin.

"Love this color on you, Jesus christ." He cups your tit through your top, squeezing. "Youre so pretty, aren't you."

You flush beneath him —always shy when he compliments you. Bucky doesn't care as he pushes you further.

"So cute and so tan." He kisses the tip of your nose, and you giggle, "you're such a sweetheart." He gives you a soft kiss to your lips.

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tweedcola · 17 days ago

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First Morning [The Brooklyn Boys]

Characters/Pairings: Stucky x curvy Millennial female!Reader Word Count: 6.7k Summary: You wake up. You're in their bed. What now?

Content/Warnings: beginning of relationship insecurities; explicit smut: vaginal fingering/clit play, oral (male receiving), unprotected vaginal intercourse, spitroasting, cumplay/marking; Steve Stays AU

Notes: Takes place directly after First Night in The Brooklyn Boys series. This series was the first thing I started posting on this blog - July 4, 2022! We were due for a return to their AU!

Additional Note: This is my week WEEK FIVE submission for @buckybarnesevents' Hot Bucky Summer - "play with it" and cum play.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

Sunlight is the first thing you feel, a bright and almost buttery warmth on your cheek, and at first your mind tries to convince you that it’s a dream, because this is the kind of light that makes you think of movie mornings—those impossibly still, impossibly golden moments that never quite happen in real life. You let your eyes crack open and blink, and the world is soft at its edges.

The room is unfamiliar, which your brain acknowledged first with mild panic, then instant recognition, then the soft boil of uncertainty that comes only from waking up in someone’s house, unsure of their rules and rhythms. The air is thick with the scent of sleep and laundry detergent and a ghost trace of last night’s dinner—Bucky’s boeuf bourguignon.

Bucky’s arm is flung across your waist, heavy, inert, the metal arm cold as a forgotten tea kettle against your skin. He sleeps with the relentless commitment of an exhausted cat, mouth open just enough to make the smallest, boyish snore, and his hair, mussed beyond repair, falls over his closed eyes. You don’t want to move, and if you’re honest with yourself, you don’t want to move because the moment you do, you’ll have to face the reality that the other side of the bed is empty.

Maybe Steve always rises before the sun, or maybe the bed’s surface just records absence more sharply than presence, but there’s a cool, slightly hollow place where you expected him to be, and it draws your gaze to it in the way a bruise insists on being pressed.

You stare at the indentation in the pillow, the faint outline of his head, and you wonder what it means that he’s not here. You want it to be a fluke, or a facet of his personality (noble, disciplined, can’t sit still, etc.), but the truth is, you have no idea what morning etiquette is when the morning is shared between three.

And all you did was sleep.

Your brain begins to blaze through possible explanations, cataloguing tiny failures, like maybe you took up too much of the covers, or snored, or rolled unconsciously away from Steve in the night and he’d read it as a sign. He’s stoic, yes, but also more sensitive than most people realize; you’ve seen it in the way he lights up when experiencing something new, pauses to truly listen when you–or anyone else–ask his opinion, and considers his words when he responds as to only give an opinion and not come off brash or commanding. You want to be worthy of that kind of consideration, and the feeling of responsibility for someone’s happiness—two someones’ happiness, really—makes your heart ricochet against your ribs.

Almost as if he can sense your brain’s ticking ramping up inside your skull, Bucky stirs, and his eyelids flicker, then open. Blue eyes, a little unfocused and puffy with sleep. He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you for a long moment, then his face breaks into a lopsided, almost dazed morning smile. He tugs you in a little closer, metal hand splayed across your hip.

“You’re still here,” he says, voice unfiltered and barely above a whisper, and the way he says it, like it could have plausibly gone another way, makes you realize how much of this—this—is as new and improbable to him as it is to you.

You let yourself be pulled in. “Where would I have gone?”

He shrugs, then lets out a contented rumble of something like a laugh. “Dunno. Could’ve been a dream having you crawl in bed with us.” His lips find your shoulder in a small, fervent kiss. “You’re warm,” he adds, and nestles in, a cat reclaiming his patch of sunlight.

There’s a soft mraow and then a nearly silent landing on the soft mattress, Alpine hopping up to join you.

Alpine, unconcerned by human boundaries, circles twice—real cat, unlike Bucky—then flops down behind your back, pressing her spine against yours, and begins to purr. Bucky stretches with the lazy grace of someone who’s fought hard for the right to do as little as possible on a Saturday, then he props himself up on one elbow, and reaches behind you to give Alpine some pets and scratches, then his hand finds yours, linking your fingers together.

“This,” he says, gesturing with a proud, tired sweep of his arm over the tableau of you, himself, and the cat. “This is perfect. Both my girls, right here. Couldn’t ask for more on a soft Saturday morning.” He seems to mean it, too; his smile has the round, satisfied shape of someone who’s not used to waking up next to people.

You laugh. “I can’t tell if I outrank the cat or not.”

Bucky considers this, giving Alpine a long, loving look, then you. “You both have your strengths,” he says. “But I can’t get Alpine to make coffee in the morning, so if you want to step in there, you might earn a few extra gold stars.”

“Just coffee?” you laugh. “That’s my only shot?”

Bucky’s cheeks tinge slightly, but he laughs with you, giving your hand a squeeze. “No, not the only shot.”

You squeeze his hand back, and then he closes in to kiss you. You sigh happily into it, and your lips move together, soft and slow, languishing in the morning.

You savor the weight of Bucky’s arm, the gentle pressure of his lips, the little hums he makes. When the kiss breaks, he presses his forehead to yours and closes his eyes. For a moment, you both just breathe. Alpine’s purr is the soft soundtrack to this moment.

Bucky’s voice is thick with sleep and something like disbelief. "You know, this is… a thousand times better than waking up alone. I keep expecting it’ll vanish if I open my eyes too long." He doesn’t laugh at himself for saying it, doesn’t undercut the vulnerability, just lets it hang there, honest. "Used to think I didn’t mind it. But this—" his arm flexes around you, and he tilts his head, hair falling in your eyes until you brush it away— "I could get used to this."

You bite your lip briefly. “What about Steve?” you ask.

“Ohhh,” Bucky’s voice lights with recognition, “that’s the tension I can feel simmering below the surface.” He presses a quick kiss to your forehead. “Steve’s not much of a sleeper. Guy’s got a nervous system like a border collie. Has to get out and run or he’ll chew the furniture.”

You laugh, feeling the nerves genuinely leave your body. “So, he’s…?”

“Probably running the perimeter of Prospect Park like it personally insulted him. He’ll be back,” Bucky assures, then reaches out to brush a strand of hair from your cheek with surprising tenderness. “He wants to be here more than anywhere else, with us. Don’t doubt that for a moment.”

You want to believe him. You do believe him, because these men have both been so open honest with you, especially since the trajectory for all three of your collided and evolved.

You shift to your back, which leaves you under the simultaneous, unblinking gaze of both Bucky and Alpine. “If we’re being honest,” you say, “I’ve never done this. The whole… waking up in someone else’s bed thing.”

Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up, a look you know isn’t feigned. “Really?”

“I mean, I’ve slept over before,” you say, heat prickling at your ears. “Usually it was half-nights and then leaving. When it was overnight, it was always, I don’t know, transactional? A single night, then a weird morning after, a rush to get dressed and get out and never talk about it again. This is—different.” You hazard a glance up at him, let your gaze linger in the haze of morning, his hair lit like a careless halo in the sun. “I’m not saying it’s scary”—and that’s not quite true, it is a little scary—“it’s just… really new. For me. All of this.”

He scoots in closer, stubbled cheek against your hair. “You can have every morning here you want,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to know how to do this. Believe me, the world’s not exactly full of advice columns for happy triads. We’re all figuring it out at the same time.”

He kisses your temple, then pulls back to look at you again, face naked in the sunlight’s clarity and somehow more beautiful for it. “Yesterday it was easy to talk about being all in, but it’s funny—waking up and… actually being all in is even better.”

Your throat catches. Damn it. You meant to be so level-headed, so slow about this new thing, but it’s already somewhere in the territory of deep feeling and you’re not even sure you made it through the night without drooling on the pillow. “Would you tell me if I was being weird?” you ask, not quite a joke.

“Would you want me to?” He grins, then leans in to kiss your nose, awkward but sweet, so much so you have to laugh. “You’re not weird. You’re just you.”

He pets Alpine again, who’s already begun to snore. “And you’re not alone. I’ve never been this open with anyone before, either. Not since the war. Not since… well. Since never, really.” The honesty in his voice is pure and steel edged. “Everything else was a performance. This is the first time I don’t feel like I have to rehearse. So, I want this.”

You let yourself believe he means it, bask in the luxury of being wanted exactly as you are. For a moment, staring at each other under the slow, sugar-rich cadence of morning, you feel the weight of the world slipping off your shoulders. It leaves something freer, more buoyant, in its place.

The sound of footsteps alerts both of you. You twist, and Bucky leans upward as Steve rounds the corner into the room.

He’s got a paper bag in one hand and a bouquet of wildflowers in the other, looking all the more endearing for being slightly out of breath. “Good morning. Glad you two weren’t planning on sleeping the whole day away,” he says with mock severity, but you notice he’s looking directly at you when he says it, and his eyes are impossibly gentle.

“Hey,” Bucky says, his voice thick with sleep and something else, a note of affection so naked it’s unmistakable.

He regards the three of you—two humans and one feline—and shakes his head with a smile that’s half exasperation, half adoration. “You know, I think it’s actually a feat,” he says, “the way you two can sleep through half a Brooklyn morning. Alpine, I expected it from you. The two of you…”

You grin, chest warming at the sight of the flowers. “You already went out and came back?”

Steve shrugs, the movement nearly bashful, and sets the paper bag and flowers on the dresser. He’s not in running clothes, you realize—no evidence of sweat or endorphins, just jeans and a faded tee, his hair towel-damp but already starting to curl at the edges.

“You two were out cold,” he says. “Didn’t want to wake you.” He grins at this, the teasing in his voice cut with fondness. “Plus, someone had to provide this morning.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Come back to bed, punk, we’ve got a girl to provide some cuddling to.”

Steve’s cheeks color a little, but he kicks off his shoes, peels off his tee, and slides beneath the covers, moving Alpine with a gentle but no-nonsense scoop to the pillow at the head of the bed. The cat doesn’t even object, just makes her way to the sunniest corner with a single, smug flick of her tail.

Steve slots in behind you, a wall of gentle, impossible warmth. His hand immediately finds the curve of your hip, and you’re startled by how natural it all feels, the way they both know exactly where to touch you without hesitation.

Bucky slides one hand, the flesh one, up to clasp at your shoulder just as Steve bends in, dipping his face to nuzzle your cheek, then kiss the corner of your mouth—soft, almost a secret. “Sleep okay?” Steve’s ask is gentle, but under it is the kind of sincerity that’s become familiar: he wants the truth, not just politeness.

“Best I’ve had in a long time,” you tell him, and it’s true. He beams, and it registers how much that simple answer means to him. His hand moves up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with such affection your heart nearly cracks open.

You brush his hair back from his forehead and kiss him, lingering, letting yourself get lost in the soft, open surprise of his mouth on yours.

Bucky’s hand on your shoulder tugs you in at the same time, and you’re momentarily crushed in a sandwich of affection—one arm banded around your ribs from behind, another slipping beneath the sheets to slide over your thigh, careful and without presumption. For a flash, you want to say something like, I could stay here forever, and then realize with a shudder that you mean it.

Steve’s hand settles on your hip, warm and steady, and Bucky’s lips find the soft spot behind your ear, and the world seems to pause—just the three of you in this cocoon of sunlight, sheets, and uncertain, exquisite hope. The kisses travel a gentle path, small and exploratory, and when Steve slides his fingers under the hem of your borrowed T-shirt, you feel a thrill, not just of skin on skin, but of the tenderness that threads through this tangled arrangement of bodies and hearts.

You turn to catch Steve’s mouth again, letting him kiss you slow, and Bucky’s hands roam your back, tracing lazy shapes, the curve of your spine, the back of your neck, finding new ways to make you shiver. Steve’s hand glides slowly up and down your waist, and then one of Bucky’s hands drifts around to the front of you, palm splaying across your belly. You have to remind yourself to breathe, because the attention, the touch, the sense of being wanted—by both of them—is overwhelming in a way that, for once, doesn’t feel like too much. It feels like exactly enough.

Bucky glances past your shoulder, catching Steve’s eye over your head, and there’s something in the exchange—something trusting and playful and proprietary—that makes the air in the room change, like the axis of the morning just shifted a few degrees. Steve meets Bucky’s gaze, then brings his lips to your temple, a soft press, the tip of his nose nuzzling your hairline.

“We don’t want to rush you,” Steve murmurs, voice low and certain, “but I want you to know—we want you to know—you’re not here because we’re expecting this. You’re here because we both want you, all of you. The physical can come when it you’re ready.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, his lips against the edge of your ear, the words hot enough to make your toes curl. “If you want out, you say so. But if you want this, we’re ready for that too.” He gives a little squeeze at your hip, a silent punctuation, and then pulls his mouth back so you can see the sincerity written all over his face.

You swallow, flooded by the strange, rare certainty that you’re—safe isn’t even the word, safe’s too small for what this is. Maybe cherished. Maybe chosen. “I want it,” you say, and you’re surprised to find your voice comes out steady, free of the apology or hesitation you’d expected. “I want both of you.”

The effect is immediate. Steve’s arms cinch tighter; Bucky’s smirk is both wicked and reverent, if that’s possible. There’s a brightness that catches in Steve’s eyes, like he just set down a heavy load he didn’t know he was carrying.

Steve kisses you again, eager now, and Bucky’s arms wrap around your waist from the front, caging you in a way that feels less like a trap and more like a promise. Their hands meet at the small of your back, and you feel the casual negotiation between them: who leads, who follows, who yields and who takes.

There’s nothing hurried about this, even though there’s heat and hunger. You’re not sure if it’s them or the dynamic between the three of you, but the sense of consideration is total—you’re passed like a secret, every motion tested and confirmed before it happens. Steve’s lips trace over your jaw, and then Bucky slides his mouth to the hollow of your throat, the sharp edge of his teeth offset by the soft, reverent way he sucks at your skin, leaving behind nothing but warmth and the faintest bloom of sensation.

When you arch back against Steve, his body braces yours, a bulwark of muscle and intent and want. His breath is steady and close, fanning over the nape of your neck, and the sensation adds shivers in all the right places. Bucky, meanwhile, acts as a front-line assault—his mouth and hands wanton and methodical, the way he explores your ribs with the broad, unhurried sweep of his hand, the way he plants kisses along your pulse points, the way he just barely trails a finger beneath the hem of the borrowed tee and waits for your breath to catch, for your consent to hang electric in the space between you.

It’s new to be the center of such attention, to have desire poured over you in two registers at once. For a fleeting second, you think you might combust from it, but instead it builds and builds, a sweet and unbearable pressure. Steve’s hands are warm, and he is a paragon of patience, but you can sense that’s wearing thin as his fingers trace over your skin, your curves, push your shirt further and further up your chest.

Bucky, not to be outdone and clearly delighted to compete, eggs on the escalation expressly through you, his hands urging you to arch, his mouth skipping higher until you’re forced to let out a soft, startled laugh.

Then Steve flips you—gently, as if you were made of the same sunlight that’s pooling in the bedsheets—so you’re flat on your back, and the two of them loom above you, side by side, a study in contrast that is, frankly, unfair to all other possible mornings. Bucky’s hair is a dark snarl, blue eyes heavy-lidded and hungry; Steve is sun-bright, eyes luminous, strands of hair damp and curling at his brow, mouth parted just a little.

You, honest to god, whimper at the sight.

There’s one more moment like this, on the precipice, and then they attack.

Their hands coordinate in a choreography that feels rehearsed from decades of knowing each other's next move. They move so quickly, you don’t have time to feel self-conscious, only a tidal wave of anticipation and joy. Steve’s fingers are careful with the hem of the tee shirt you’re wearing, but his mouth is urgent against yours. Bucky’s lips find your hip with an unabashed hunger as he peels the shorts down your legs, his hair falling forward and tickling your thighs, his metal hand shock-cold against the fire of your skin.

The way they touch you is both reverent and greedy, as if you are something rare they can’t believe has landed in their arms. When you move to reciprocate, to touch them back, you’re met with a playful growl from Bucky and a sweet, chiding admonition from Steve—“Let us take care of you this time”—and though your first instinct is to protest, it’s clear that with two against one it’s going to be far too easy for them to pursue as they want.

Bucky kisses down the inside of your thigh with a deliberateness that ought to be illegal, and Steve, eyes hooded but bright, holds your gaze through every quiver. When Bucky’s mouth finds the place it seeks, you’re grateful for Steve’s hand gripping yours—otherwise, it’s possible you might levitate off the bed entirely.

It’s more intense than anything you’ve ever experienced, a new kind of pleasure that bends the sensation of time. The world tunnels down to the exact places they touch you: Bucky’s tongue soft and devastating, his beard rough and sweet between your legs; Steve’s mouth at your ear, whispering encouragement, his hands everywhere at once, as if he’s memorizing the exact geometry of your body with his palms.

They’re not in a hurry, which in some ways makes it worse. You feel yourself losing the ability to coordinate word and breath, losing track of things like shame and propriety. Instead, you utter gasps, whimpers, airy not-quite-please and oh my god and don’t stop.

Steve kisses your wrist, your forearm, laving heat across your skin with a devotion that devastates even as Bucky’s mouth is relentless, then Steve’s mouth, which has been everywhere but where you want it most, descends to your breasts. He kisses the valley between, then the sweet sharp point of the left, then the right, taking his time, letting his tongue and lips circle and gently draw, until you’re arching helplessly into his hand, into his mouth, into the air itself.

Bucky’s tongue is steady and precise, as if the only goal he has for the day is to make you lose your mind. The contrast between the cool metal of his hand pinning your hip and the hot, human insistence of his mouth makes your whole body tremble. Steve’s teeth tease your nipple, and Bucky’s tongue delves with a sudden, clever pressure—and just like that, the world whites out.

You’re only dimly aware that you’re making noises—somewhere between a whimper and a sob, the kind of need you’ve never allowed yourself in front of another human being, let alone two, and the thrill of it, the shattering newness, rocks through your chest and out your limbs.

You come hard, toes curling in the sheets, nails digging half-moons into Steve’s arm where you cling, every part of your body taut as a bowstring. Bucky rides it out, tongue lavishing you through and past every convulsion, until you’re left shuddering, breathless, boneless on the mattress.

Steve is there at the crest and the fall, his mouth gentle now, peppering kisses across your chest, your collarbone, your jaw. He smooths your hair, cradles your head in his big palm, and the look in his eyes is so open and gentle it undoes you all over again. Bucky, emerging from between your thighs, looks up with a roguish, utterly delighted smile and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Still with us, sweetheart?”

You try to answer, but your chest is still heaving, your limbs trembling from aftershocks. “Yeah,” you manage, voice a frayed whisper. Steve kisses your temple, Bucky lays his cheek briefly on your thigh in a gesture that feels like both a benediction and a claim.

“Good,” Bucky says, and the satisfaction in his tone makes you dizzy. He sits up, hands bracketing you, eyes glinting with something wild and greedy and impossibly tender. “You just let us know if it’s too much. Promise?” You nod, and he leans in to claim your mouth with his, hot and insistent; his tongue tastes of you, and the impossible intimacy of it makes your toes curl all over again.

Steve’s hand is smoothing up your side, tracing the sensitive skin of your ribs, and when his fingers drift to your jaw, he turns your face toward him and kisses you, deep and open, savoring you until you’re truly breathless, and then the two of them are kissing each other.

The sight of it—Steve and Bucky pressed together over you, mouths locked in a messy, hungry collision—should floor you, and it does, but in a different way than you expect; it doesn’t feel intimidating or foreign or even performative. It feels natural, inevitable, like seeing the moon and the tide caught in each other’s pull.

You reach up, threading your hand into Steve’s hair, and he groans into Bucky’s mouth. The sound goes straight through you. Bucky grins against Steve’s lips, then breaks away and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, giving you a look like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. He moves to loom over you, pinning your wrists above your head with that preternatural strength, blue eyes so close and so full of want you forget to breathe.

“You want us to keep going?” he asks, voice low and thick.

You nod, an eager, “Yes,” falling from your lips.

The answer has them moving like lightning, man-handling you but with inevitable care given their superhuman strength, positioning you until you’re upright, kneeling between them, blanketed only in sunlight. Steve is already shoving his jeans down, and Bucky’s hands catch your chin to kiss you again, teeth catching on your lower lip, even as his cock presses against your thigh, hard and insistent.

You don’t need direction; you want this, and you want them, and it’s easy to reach for Bucky first, to take him in hand and stroke. He exhales a jagged breath, and his eyes darken. He grips you by the nape, gentle but demanding, and guides your mouth down to his cock. He’s not cruel about it—he’s careful, in fact, holding himself back even as you take him in, slowly, tongue tracing the ridge of his leaking tip.

He feeds his cock into your mouth, slow at first, the taste of him intoxicating and raw. You hollow your cheeks, letting him set a rhythm, feeling the tremor that races through his thighs every time you suck a little harder or flick your tongue just so, and you’re rewarded with his voice—ragged, unstaged groans that make you want to see how far you can take him in your worship.

There’s a brief moment, as the head of his cock brushes the back of your throat and you feel him twitch, that you think you might gag or lose your nerve. But Bucky’s voice is right there, low and ragged and full of praise—“Good girl, god, so fucking good, just like that, sweetheart.”

Steve is behind you, kneeling on the bed, his hands stroking over your hips, your back, a kind of reverent survey that makes your whole body feel like a live wire. He presses kisses along your shoulder, your neck, his lips pressing open-mouthed against your pulse point as his fingers trace the curve of your spine. He’s so solid, so attentive, and when his hand skims between your legs to stroke you where you’re dripping, you actually moan around Bucky’s cock. The vibration must feel incredible for him, because he shudders, hips jerking forward so you take him deeper.

Steve’s fingers are slow at first, spreading you open and circling, then dipping inside, and you feel the sweet stretch of him as he adds a second finger, scissoring gently before drawing them out to rub lazy circles over your already-sensitive clit. “You’re so wet,” he murmurs, and the way he says it makes your head swim.

You want to turn, to see him, but Bucky is still in your mouth, and when you glance up he’s watching you with this open hunger that shoots another rush or want and desire through you, stoking the fire already steadily burning in your core.

At some point you’re aware of the rustle of a wrapper, the soft snap as Steve rolls on a condom. You’re so wet already it takes almost no effort for him to press the head of his cock to your entrance. Steve buries himself inside you, slow and controlled, making you feel every inch, and when he’s fully seated, the fullness is so exquisite it’s almost a new flavor of ache. You’re pinned between them, Bucky’s cock in your mouth, Steve’s cock in your cunt, and the sensation overloads every system you have.

You try your best to keep pace, to savor and reciprocate, but the dual sensations overwhelm in the best way. Steve moves inside you with incredible care, rocking his hips just enough that every push and pull glides you forward on Bucky’s cock; Bucky’s hand tightens on the back of your skull, loosening the second you even think of needing room, as if he’s determined to never take more than you can give. The coordination is seamless and strange, like they’ve been practicing—not this, but the give and take, the knowledge of how to support, to anticipate, to share.

Bucky moans and mutters your name, obscenities rolling off his tongue in a tumble of Brooklyn vowels, and at some point—maybe after the third or fourth time Steve’s cock bottomed out and made you hum against him—Bucky pulls out with a pop, catching your face in his hands. His thumb traces your lips, which are wet and swollen. “Where do you want my cum?”

It’s not a question you’ve ever been asked, let alone answered, but it thrills some wild, bright part of your brain to be asked it at all—and even more to answer. “On me,” you say, not even sure where the answer comes from, only that you want it. “On my back. Want to feel it.”

The effect is immediate, electric. Bucky’s eyes go wide, pupils swallowing the blue right out of them; Steve, who’s fucking you slow and deep, lets out a sound between a laugh and a groan—a kind of delighted, awed agreement.

“God, you’re—” Bucky doesn’t finish the sentence, just slots his cock into your mouth again for a few more strokes, these more rough, and then he’s pulling out, and leaning around to spill his hot, wild release across your back, thick and sudden and so much more than you expected that you freeze in place, shuddering as the warmth beads and drips down your spine. The noise Bucky makes as he comes is wonderfully debauched, and the sight of him—sweaty, eyes rolling up, muscle cording his arm as he fists the base of his cock to paint your skin—brands itself onto your brain.

And you are clearly not the only one affected.

Steve’s grip tightens on your hips, and he begins to thrust deeper, harder, as if the sight of you marked with Bucky’s cum sends him a little feral. He’s vocal too, not in words but with deep groans from his chest, coming more frequently with the intensified thrusts.

He’s so impossibly thick and hot inside you, erasing your thought process down to only the raw feeling of being utterly filled by him. He draws you in—pulling your hips back, then teasing you with a half-thrust, a deep grind that makes your head spin. Bucky’s voice in your ear eggs him on, alternating praise and goading, “She loves it, Steve, more, she can take it, yeah, just like that—” and you realize he’s kneeling at your side now, metal hand firm on your shoulder, steadying you, holding you for Steve.

There’s a moment where he slows, and the interruption of the rhythm draws you to a moment of alertness. Steve’s palm travels up the line of your back, catching a rivulet of Bucky’s cum and spreading it—slick and deliberate—across your skin. The movement shouldn’t be as erotic as it is, but it makes you melt and arch your back more for him—for them, really, because Bucky groans, and then his hand joins Steve’s in the mess.

Behind you, you hear the damp, half-wild sound of their mouths meeting and twist your head back to see Steve turning his head, Bucky darting in. They’re kissing, open and desperate, the heat of their tongues and teeth and need coming off them in waves. For a moment, their hands both grip you, anchoring you in the moment with them, and you realize how right it is, the three of you in this knot of want and belonging.

Steve’s thrusts slow just enough for him to murmur, “Bucky. Touch her.”

“Already am,” Bucky answers, voice low and rough.

“Play with her clit, jerk,” Steve says, and though it’s almost comical in its directness, the effect it has on you is immediate and total. Then his voice drops another octave as he adds, “Make her come again, Buck.”

His metal hand, sticky with his cum, slides between your legs, and he strokes you with a confidence that feels both new and impossibly well-practiced. He circles your clit with a slow, torturous precision, and the added sensation makes your knees buckle, your inner muscles clenching down on Steve’s cock.

“Fuck,” Steve mutters, the word wrecked and reverent, and his hands dig into your sides as he starts thrusting with more focus, more intent. “Bucky’s got you, sweetheart, just let go.”

You do, because there is no use in holding anything back now. There’s a wild, animal ache in you, a need to be seen and touched and filled by these men, newly discovered at how deep that need goes when it’s only your first time together, and even if you turn to ash from the intensity, you’ll be grateful just to have burned here with them.

The room goes high and bright and full of static as Bucky’s fingers skate over your clit, rapid but never too rough. Steve doesn’t let up—it’s so steady, so deep, every drive of his hips sending a fresh bolt of pleasure through you, until you break again, shuddering and keening, collapsing forward to your elbows, anchored only by the greedy and adoring hands of your two men. You come even harder this time, the orgasm ripping through you in sharp, hot contractions you can feel everywhere at once, and for a moment you don’t even remember your own name. You cry out, and you feel like you’re shattering down to the last nerve, shoving your hips back onto Steve’s cock as he rides you through it.

Steve follows you over the edge, and you know it by the sudden, hard shudder in his whole body, the ferocity in the way he pins your hips to his, the choked-off sound he lets loose as he buries his face in the crook of your neck and loses himself. The heat of him throbs inside you, and even through the condom you feel the press and pulse of his release.

You come down in increments: the taste of air, the rawness in your throat, Steve’s arms reaching around you to draw you upright and into his chest, pressing kisses to your jaw and the side of your face, murmuring praise and comfort in equal measure. Bucky, is right there in an instant, his chest pressed to yours, his hands gliding up your sides in a soothing, steadying motion.

The rest of it you can’t track in detail: you just know that you’re being held, soothed, peppered with lazy post-coital affection. Everything is loose and soft and blurred, a blend of bodies against bodies, lips at temples, hands at hips, descending to the mattress, someone reaching for the discarded bedsheet and wrapping all three of you in its cocoon.

Eventually it’s Bucky who breaks the silence, lowering his voice as he nuzzles your hairline, “Would apologize for the mess, but…” He doesn’t finish. He just kisses the crown of your head with a proud, ridiculous flourish.

Steve laughs, muffled against the base of your neck, then straightens up and presses his lips there, slow and lingering. “I’ll help you clean up,” he whispers, the promise more than practical. He’s still inside you, but softening, and you reach down to squeeze his hand, which is already splayed across your belly.

He pulls out of you gently, and you shiver at the sudden emptiness and the sweet ache he leaves behind. Bucky’s hand traces lazy, sticky circles at the lowest point of your spine, and when Steve finally disentangles himself, he presses a kiss to your shoulder before rolling off the bed. “This is a good look for you,” Steve notes, voice raw and still reverent, and a little sinful.

Bucky laughs, low and winded, and stretches on the bed until his shoulders crack. “Nothing better,” he says, and props himself up to watch Steve lick a careful, almost curious stripe along the top of your spine.

“Steve—” you half-laugh, half-chide, not sure if being cleaned off with a tongue is a bridge too far or the hottest thing you’ve ever experienced. “You don’t have to—”

He glances up, mouth glistening with Bucky’s spend. His tongue darts out, licking his lips, and your breath catches.

He grins, and if you thought you’d seen Steve Rogers at his most charming, you were wrong, because this is the weaponized version of that smile—dimple out, eyes molten, tongue still wet with the taste of you and Bucky. “Couldn’t waste it, sweetheart,” he says, voice so gentle it almost breaks the skin. “Besides, it’s…”

He hesitates, as if unsure you want to hear the rest, but then Bucky answers for him, hand braced at the back of your neck, “It’s hot. It’s so fucking hot.”

You feel the heat rise in your chest and cheeks, but the embarrassment doesn’t burn—it’s just another flavor of this intense, complex delight. You swallow, and Steve, as if guided by some quiet radar, bends to the hollow of your shoulder and licks again, slower, catching every drop, then kisses the place clean.

He’s savoring you, but he’s savoring Bucky, too—his gaze splits the difference, every lick and slow, deliberate sweep of tongue a show for both of you. Bucky, who has propped himself up on one elbow, watches with naked appreciation, his own cock already hardening again where it rests against your hip.

“Jesus, Steve,” Bucky’s voice is a scrape over gravel, astonished. “You’re not even giving her a chance to catch her breath. How are you expecting us to get out of bed at all today?”

Steve grins, and it’s edged with something wild, something that makes your stomach bottom out and then fly. “Can’t help it. And who said I wanted you out of bed? Just didn’t want you to sleep the day away.” He holds your gaze as he licks another stripe along your back; he’s not in a hurry, he’s never in a hurry, and it settles you even as it both unnerves and excites.

Bucky, not to be outdone or outstripped of a moment’s attention, leans in close and presses a kiss to your cheek, then your ear, then trails a line of gentle bites down your neck. “Sounds like a challenge.”

He’s not wrong. “What if I like the idea of being absolutely ruined on a Saturday?” you manage, your voice shaky and new to your ears in this register, the register of braver, hungrier you.

And the next hour is a glorious, sticky, lazy collection slow kisses and playful wrestling and exploration over the tangle of pillows and sheets. The three of you move from heat to laughter and back again, never quite drifting out of each other’s orbits. When the high tide of arousal ebbs, there’s still the press of bodies, the comfort—even the small, childlike delight—of being allowed to touch and be touched.

You do leave the bed—needing to relieve yourself and stretch your limbs properly, also indulging in a shower, and eating—but you don’t leave the apartment.

Not that day, and not that weekend.

Too much to say, to do, to be, and to build in this new beginning now that you belong to them, they belong to you, and the three of you belong to each other.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

These men are still one of my most consistently read and reblogged stories! I always intended to keep their main story fluff and g-rated, but I knew they would have some great sex. I wrote a smutty little something for winter holidays a couple of years ago, and when I started to write First Night, I had every intention that it would turn smutty, but as I wrote it, it just didn't feel like that night was the moment...

But when I hit publish on First Night, I KNEW this is what happened the next morning. I knew you'd wake up with only Bucky in bed, have just a moment of questioning hesitation, but then learn his absence is only due to that need to get out and run, and he returns and they properly snuggle and then smut you up. I hope you all enjoyed!

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tweedcola · 17 days ago

Text

Thank you for reblogging!

Just a lil domestic drabble with Steve and Bucky

Word Count: 372

Warnings: mentions of sex

Bucky stirs when Steve steps into the room, his enhanced hearing causing him to wake while you continue to snooze.

"Everything okay?" Bucky asks Steve under his breath.

"All fine," is the succinct answer. Now Steve's home he needs to focus his energy on his people. He's been told that a work-life balance is important. "How's our girl been?"

"Insatiable," Bucky answers, with a sly grin. "Can't believe I'm saying this punk, but I'm so glad there are two of us. Wouldn't be able to keep up with her like this all of the time."

"She tire you out old man?" Steve asks with a wicked cackle, stopping sharply when you shift against his chest in protest of the movement.

"Sounds to me like a complaint Buck," Steve murmurs, stroking his thumb against your temple and marvelling at your ability to sleep through the entire conversation.

Hope you enjoyed!

Please check out my other fics here!

#thank you!#omg thank you #stucky x reader #steve x bucky x reader

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tweedcola · 17 days ago

Text

Omg, very cute!!

Like Riding A Bike

Steve Rogers x reader annual silliness!

Summary: Steve digs deep to remember a bygone era.

Warnings for being, yet again, uselessly fluffy. Featuring Stevie as the sweetest, cutest bean with the kiddos and my usual P U N S! WC 740 gif by @youareheaven

Steve grins at the kids frantically bouncing around when they see him. The young boys and girls call out questions in competition with each other, antsy for him to come into their classroom, uncaring that he can’t answer over the screaming.

He, of course, happily shuffles in, taking two strides where each child takes five. Steve's heart swells at the sight of papier-mâché helmets, origami side caps, and striped skirts made of felt strips and cut up white sheets.

They made costumes.

“Okay, kids,” their teacher manages to shout in the din. “Places!”

In alternating red and blue t-shirts, the boys and girls line up, desks pushed into the corners of the room and stacked higher than they are tall.

You herd your students like cats into a very loose V shape.

“Who…” you start to lead, wearing your much nicer and more accurate outfit.

The kids all whip up their arms up in salute, a few using the wrong hand before they’re corrected by a neighbor.

“WHO’S STRONG AND BRAVE,” everyone slowly yells almost in unison, “HERE TO SAVE THE AMERICAN WAY?”

Most of the children stick their left leg out to the side and tuck it back in, taking a step forward. You wink at him; you’re doing the moves with them and helping with the words.

—campaign door-to-door—

Steve sees you waving him to jump in, but he hasn’t thought of this dance for what feels like fifteen years. He watches you do a kick-ball-change, the kids doing a simple little kick because clearly there’s only so much you can teach the youngsters.

Whatever possesses him in that moment, he’s grateful.

Steve moves into the middle of the V and marches, his steps tentative as he follows your cues

—Hoboken to Spokane—

There’s multiple pronunciations throttled in volume for fun.

By this point, the performers amongst the students are very obvious, one boy just mumbling with a sagging salute that ends up in a head scratch. It’s one of the most adorable presentations he’s ever seen.

Who’ll rise or fall, give his all for America?

He’s getting into it now, walking the span of the line and offering high-fives to the kids, folding himself in the row beside you for can can.

Who’s here to prove that we can?

There are no measurable beats. He began rushing to think ahead but ends a bit too fast. It’s the most fun he’s had in a while though the two verses you and your kids have practiced is enough. Steve beams at the final, joyous scream of“THE STAR-SPANGLED MAN WITH A PLAN!”

The kid celebrate themselves—as they should—and struggle to listen to your corralling for one last surprise.

Instead of a whole other tune, there’s just a very slow, deafening cry of ‘happy birthday, Captain Rogers.’

“Thank you,” he returns. “Thank you so much!”

“How old are you?” one kid shrieks.

“One-hundred and seven,” another answers before Steve’s mouth even opens.

There’s gasps and a couple of ewwww-s.

“Actually, it’s more like forty,” he admits.

“Forty? That’s older than my dad.”

“Mine, too.”

“That’s crazy. What’s it like?!”

Steve wants to say it’s a bit like being 107 properly when they react like that, but kids will be kids.

“Alright, guys and girls, Captain America has to go see some other rooms before his talk this afternoon.” You clap to regain attention. “Let’s put our room back in order, okay?”

They excitedly scatter as you show him out to the hallway, Steve’s helping handlers for the day standing toward the other end to mark his next stop.

“Forty, huh? That’s a milestone,” you add with a sweet smile. “Must have big plans!”

Steve scratches at his neck nervously. “If I have my way, it will be something quiet…” He takes a long look at your fairly accurate costume, makeup, and, specifically, red lipstick. “Maybe now I’ll add a bit of dancing to the menu, ya know, since I’m feeling spry…for a relic.”

Your laugh echos in the mostly empty hall. “You picked it back up very quickly. Good muscle memory.”

“It’s like riding a bike,” he chirps, sharply inhaling to puff out his chest, gathering confidence. “And you’re a great teacher. I always had a pretty good memory even though I’m apparently so old.” Steve enjoys the sound of your laugh again. “For example, if you tell me your number, I’ll learn it. Easy.”

Happy Bday, Stevie!

💃🏽🇺🇸💃🏽

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tweedcola · 20 days ago

Text

The Education Of James Buchanan Barnes

pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 4.2k words

summary | after a hot date night, you decide it’s time to introduce bucky to the world of sex toys. but as he watches you come undone under a vibrator and dildo, curiosity quickly gives way to jealousy—and before you know it, the lesson turns into a possessive, desperate claim with his cock buried deep inside you where, as he puts it, you belong.

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v, sex toys, vibrator use, dildo use, edging, orgasm denial, reader gets absolutely railed, jealous!bucky, possessive!bucky, rough sex, desperate sex, “That Should Be Me” energy, mutual orgasms, praise kink, clingy post-sex bucky

a/n | based on thissss request. said I'd post on tues and here it is. enjoy, you little freaks <3 you don't need to read the previous chapters to read this one

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ - ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ - ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

The door slammed shut behind you, a little louder than it needed to, the echo sharp against the dim hallway light of your apartment.

Your laughter was still spilling out into the room, low and breathless, caught halfway between amusement and anticipation.

You barely got two steps in before Bucky was on you.

His hands found your waist first—fingers slipping beneath the hem of your jacket like he needed skin contact now—and his lips were on your neck, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive curve just below your ear.

You let out a soft gasp, the sound immediately turning into a laugh as you stumbled backward into the wall, your shoulder hitting it with a dull thud.

“Jesus, Barnes,” you teased, tilting your head to give him better access, your hands coming up to tangle in his hair. “At least let me take off my shoes before you start undressing me.”

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

His mouth trailed lower, teeth grazing along your throat as his hands slid down, over the curve of your ass, gripping like he already forgot how to be patient.

You could still taste the wine on his breath—rich, red, something expensive you pretended to know about during dinner. He’d been charming, quietly smug, his hand on your knee beneath the table the entire time. But now, that cool confidence had turned into something hotter, something needier.

“Couldn’t stop looking at you all night,” he murmured into your skin. “Every time you smiled at me like that, I wanted to take you home and—”

You cut him off with a slow, satisfied hum. “And what?”

He groaned. “Don’t make me say it.”

You leaned forward, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You’ve already got your hands on my ass, Barnes. The hard part’s over.”

He laughed—soft and low—but it came out like a growl against your neck.

You pulled back slightly to look at him. His pupils were blown, his cheeks flushed, hair slightly messy from your fingers. He looked like someone undone by want—and he hadn’t even touched you properly yet.

You gave him that smile—that one. The cheeky, up-to-something smirk that always made his brows furrow and his jaw tighten.

The one that meant you were about to make him feel something he wasn’t prepared for.

“Down, Sergeant,” you said sweetly, placing your palms flat on his chest and gently easing him back.

He groaned—more out of protest than pain—his grip tightening on your hips as he let you push him away, but just barely. His fingers didn’t leave you, still clutching your waist like he wasn’t sure if this was a tease or the start of something serious.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked, suspicious, eyes narrowing as you started to backpedal toward the bedroom.

You shrugged, still grinning. “Nowhere dangerous.”

“See, it’s the smile that says otherwise.”

You took a few more steps back, tugging him with you by the belt loops. He followed, slow but curious, letting you lead him through the doorway. His fingers skimmed under your dress again, thumbs brushing skin like he was trying to anchor himself.

You stopped at the edge of your bed, then stepped aside, letting him take in the view behind you.

That’s when he saw it.

His eyes widened slightly. You caught the flash of confusion as he looked down at your mattress—lined neatly with a few very intentional things: a sleek vibrator, a wand, a slim, curved dildo, a bottle of lube, and your favorite black satin restraints.

He stared for a second.

Blinking.

Then blinked again.

“What…” he started, voice lower now. Rough. “What is all this?”

You leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“A surprise.”

He turned to look at you, brow raised. “Is this a setup?”

You smirked. “Have you met me?”

Bucky stood still, eyes sweeping over the bed again—over the glossy black wand, the lube glinting under the soft light, the silicone toy shaped far too perfectly for your body.

Then he looked at you, expression stuck between scandalized and turned on.

“Did you rob a sex store?”

You rolled your eyes, stepping closer to him. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I mean, that’s a lot of equipment.”

“It’s two toys, a bottle of lube, and a wand, Barnes. Not an armory.”

He didn’t move when you tugged him forward by the waistband of his jeans, but his jaw flexed—very slightly—as his knees bumped the edge of the bed.

You raised a brow, smirking. “What? Don’t tell me you didn’t see toys when you were on your little porn discovery mission.”

He coughed, averting his eyes for a split second. “Yeah, well—maybe. But I’m more of a, y’know… hands-on kind of guy.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear as your hands slid up under his shirt. “Old fashioned, huh?”

His fingers twitched against your hips again, not quite meeting your teasing with a response.

You pulled back just far enough to meet his eyes, grinning.

“Funny. That 69 we did with your hands tied says very otherwise.”

His breath hitched. You weren’t wrong.

And from the way his cock was already hardening beneath his jeans, he knew it too.

You rose onto your toes, hands sliding up his chest, nails dragging lightly through the fabric of his shirt. He was still tense—not resistant, but processing. Curious. Hesitant. Turned on out of his goddamn mind.

So you leaned in slowly, brushing your lips against his.

Just a light kiss. Then another.

And another.

Tiny pecks that softened him, unraveled that edge of caution from his shoulders.

“You can still be hands-on,” you murmured between kisses. “Just… with toys in your hands.”

Another kiss, slow and lingering this time. You felt him exhale through his nose, felt his lips finally part and press back into yours.

You smiled against his mouth, coaxing.

“You don’t even have to do anything complicated. Just…” You let your fingers trail down his arms, tugging his hands to your waist. “Use them. Use me. Learn what works.”

He groaned, barely audible, as his hands settled firmly on your hips again—like just the permission alone was undoing him.

You pulled back, just a breath away.

“C’mon, Sarge. Let’s see what those old-fashioned hands can do with some new tools.”

His jaw clenched again.

You stepped back from him slowly, feeling the heat of his hands lingering on your hips as your fingers curled around the hem of your dress.

Bucky’s eyes followed every movement—glued to your hands, to the slow shift of fabric, to the smug little grin on your lips that told him you knew exactly what you were doing.

And then?

You pulled.

The dress slipped over your hips and down your thighs in one fluid motion, pooling around your ankles like water.

Bucky’s breath caught.

You stood there, spine straight, head tilted just slightly to the side, watching his reaction as your body was revealed—deliberately chosen lingerie in inky black lace, sheer in all the right places, hugging every curve.

The bra pushed your breasts up just enough to tease, the fabric a whisper against your skin, while the panties sat low on your hips, lacy edges framing your stomach and dipping between your legs like an invitation.

The sheer mesh left little to the imagination.

Your stomach was bare.

Your thighs.

The delicate rise of your hips.

It was… artful, really.

And you knew it.

“You wore that to dinner?” Bucky asked, voice low and wrecked already.

You grinned. “Technically, I wore it for dessert.”

His eyes dragged over you, slow and reverent and hungry.

And then you stepped back again, toward the bed.

“Pick one,” you said, nodding toward the toys. “Whichever you want. Try it on me.”

He didn’t move right away. Just looked at you.

Like you were the most dangerous, beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

And the most willing.

You climbed onto the bed with slow, fluid confidence, the mattress dipping under your knees as you crawled back into position. Leaning on your elbows, you propped yourself up, legs spreading easily, openly, like it was second nature to put your body on display for him.

And maybe it was. For him, it always had been.

Bucky followed like a man in a trance.

His eyes roamed over you—down your torso, between your thighs, lingering at the edge of the lace still clinging to your hips. He was silent, almost hesitant. Until his gaze flicked toward the toys spread across the sheets.

You watched as he reached out and picked up the vibrator.

The sleek little device looked almost comical in his broad, calloused hand—lightweight, pastel-colored, clearly not made with 1940s masculinity in mind.

He turned it over slowly, brow furrowing, mouth slightly parted like he was reading a tactical blueprint.

“There are settings,” you murmured, voice soft and teasing. “Low, medium, high.”

He looked at you, and something about the way his mouth twitched made you narrow your eyes.

“Start on low, Bucky.”

He didn’t answer. Just clicked it on.

The low hum vibrated between his fingers.

And then?

He clicked it again.

High.

Before you could stop him, he pressed the tip of the vibrator directly onto your clit—still covered by your lace panties.

The jolt that tore through your body was instant and violent.

Your back arched, a yelp escaped your throat, and your leg snapped out so fast you nearly kicked him in the face.

“Jesus—BUCKY!”

He dodged your foot, arms up in surrender, laughing as he dropped the toy onto the sheets.

“What? You said there were settings, I was just—testing.”

You shoved at his shoulder, breathless, glaring as you tried to catch your breath.

“You tested high?! Right on my clit?! What the hell kind of logic—”

“I didn’t think it’d be that strong.”

You gave him a look that could’ve curdled milk, still panting, your thighs trembling slightly from the aftershock.

He was still laughing.

And blushing.

“You’re gonna kill me,” you muttered, reaching down to adjust your panties like your clit hadn’t just been sniped by Stark-level technology.

He raised his hands. “Okay, okay. Let’s try that again. Gently this time.”

You laid back again, eyeing him warily.

“Try it again,” you said. “And if you blast me like that a second time, I’m switching to the dildo and you can just sit there and watch.”

His grin vanished.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Once your breathing evened out—once your pulse stopped thundering in your ears—you gave him a small, warning nod. Not exactly forgiving him yet, but willing to let him try again.

Bucky reached for the vibrator, a little more cautious now.

“Low,” you said again, firmly.

He smirked but obeyed, clicking it on to the lowest setting. The hum was soft this time, barely more than a buzz, and you could already see the change in him—his shoulders relaxed, his gaze sharpened. He wasn’t playing anymore.

He moved closer, crawling between your spread thighs, settling onto his elbows like he was preparing for something delicate. His metal hand slid over your thigh, holding you open with care as he brought the toy down, brushing it gently—so gently—against the lace over your clit.

You inhaled sharply. A good sharp.

His eyes flicked up, watching your face.

“How’s that feel?” he asked, voice low and steady.

You let your eyes close, lips parting on a slow, breathy exhale. Your body relaxed this time, no violent kicks—just heat curling low in your belly, spreading like fire.

“Nice,” you murmured, a small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “That’s… really nice.”

He made a quiet, pleased sound.

Then did it again.

Slower this time, moving the toy in gentle circles over the fabric. Not rushing, not pushing. Just watching—the rise and fall of your breath, the subtle twitch of your thighs, the way your fingers curled in the sheets when he hit just the right angle.

Your hips arched, just slightly, chasing the motion.

He smiled. Almost smug. But underneath it—something tender, too.

Like he couldn’t believe he was the one doing this to you.

Making you feel like this.

Your breath hitched as he moved lower, eyes flicking to your panties.

“Let me see you,” he murmured.

His fingers hooked the edge of the lace and drew it aside with care—so slowly, like he was unwrapping something sacred. His gaze dropped to your bare, glistening core, and the little sound he made in his throat—half growl, half groan—sent a fresh rush of heat through you.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You’re so wet already.”

You smirked, lazy and indulgent. “Well, you did almost blow my clit off.”

He shot you a look, one brow raised, mouth twitching with that cocky little smirk you were quickly learning to associate with danger.

“Yeah,” he said. “About that…”

He brought the toy back down—still on low—and touched it directly to your clit.

Your whole body jolted.

But this time, there was no kicking. Just a soft gasp, your hips lifting off the bed, thighs twitching as pleasure rippled through you like heat lightning.

He moved it in tight, slow circles.

You whimpered.

He leaned in close, voice low and full of intent.

“You remember edging me?” he asked.

Your eyes blinked open, hazy with heat. “…Bucky—”

He clicked the toy off.

You whined.

Your hips bucked, searching for friction, desperate and denied.

His grin widened.

“Yeah,” he said, almost to himself. “That’s exactly what it felt like.”

You reached for him—maybe to swat him, maybe to drag him down onto you—but he dodged easily, clicking the toy back on and touching it just to the side of your clit this time, not giving you the full pressure you craved.

You moaned, head falling back onto the sheets.

He was toying with you.

Teasing, circling, pulling you to the brink and pulling back just before it broke.

“Feel that?” he asked softly. “How close you are?”

You nodded frantically, thighs trembling.

He lifted the toy away again.

Your whole body arched, a strangled noise escaping your throat.

“Good,” he said, smug and composed and ruthless. “Now let’s do that a few more times.”

He edged you once.

Then again.

And again.

Each time pulling the toy away just as your body reached that shattering precipice, just as your thighs began to shake and your moans turned to pleas. Your voice cracked somewhere between curses and whimpers—rage and lust and raw need colliding in your chest.

“Fucking—Bucky! I swear to God—”

He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, smile far too calm for someone committing such heinous crimes against your orgasm.

“You’re doing great,” he said, maddeningly sweet. “Almost as pretty as when you edged me.”

“Bucky, I will end you.”

“Oh, I know,” he said, clicking the toy off again. “But first—”

You whined. Actually whined. Fisting the sheets as your entire body trembled with pent-up release.

Then you saw him reach for the next item on the bed.

The dildo.

Smooth, curved, a little thicker than average—his choice.

He looked at it, looked at you.

Then leaned forward again, eyes gleaming. “Can I try this?”

You couldn’t even speak.

Just nodded, gasping, your whole body tight and twitching with denial.

He ran the toy through your folds first, slicking it with your arousal. Then, slowly, he pressed it in—inch by inch—watching your body stretch around it, his lips parted, his breath caught in his throat.

The groan that left you was wrecked.

He pulled it back.

Then slid it in again.

And again.

His strokes were smooth, unhurried, his gaze fixed where your body took it, sucking it in with every glide.

You felt his focus—too much of it.

“Stop looking at my cunt like a science experiment,” you muttered, voice wrecked and trembling.

He didn’t even blink. “You’re fascinating.”

You let out something between a sob and a laugh, hips canting up, thighs trembling as he thrust the toy deeper, angling just right and watching as your mouth dropped open in a silent moan.

“God, you’re so fucking wet,” he whispered, almost to himself.

And you? You were seconds from detonating.

Bucky’s focus sharpened to a point—you, spread out and glistening, shaking under his touch as the toy slid in and out of you with steady, unrelenting rhythm.

His hand never faltered, wrist rotating just enough to give the dildo that subtle curve each time it pushed deep, brushing against the spot that made your back arch off the mattress.

His other hand was braced on your thigh, holding it open, thumb stroking gently as your moans got louder, less controlled.

He was breathing harder now, jaw tense, the veins in his forearm visible as he picked up the pace.

Not just faster—deeper.

And every time he drove it in, you let out a sound that made his own hips twitch, his cock straining against the fabric of his jeans.

You were writhing, hands tangled in the sheets, eyes barely able to stay open as you looked down your body at him—watching him watch you.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, head dropping back as the pleasure built and built again. “Bucky—fuck—”

He bit his lip.

His strokes grew faster, rougher, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room, your arousal coating the toy, your thighs trembling as your moans rose in pitch.

“You hear yourself?” he rasped, voice dark now, tight. “So fucking loud. So good.”

Your hands clawed at the sheets, your mouth falling open in a gasp as the toy slid in hard, again and again, your body so close to the edge you could taste it.

And still—he didn’t stop.

“Say my name,” he said, fucking you harder now, jaw clenched as he watched your hips lift to meet every thrust. “Say it.”

“Bucky—please—”

His rhythm stuttered for a second.

Then he leaned in closer, eyes burning.

The sounds coming from between your legs were obscene—slick, wet, relentless. The dildo slid in and out of you, faster now, your thighs twitching with every thrust, your moans ragged, needy, broken.

And Bucky? Bucky was watching.

Watching you come apart, shaking on the edge, and all he could think about was how it wasn’t him.

His jaw clenched as his hand moved, wrist flicking with practiced rhythm now, and still it wasn’t enough. Not for him.

He stared at where the toy disappeared into your body, at how easily you took it, at how you moaned his name—and something just… snapped.

The moment you let out a wrecked little gasp, your legs clamping around nothing as your orgasm finally hit—your whole body clenching around that silicone?

He yanked it out of you, fast.

You whimpered, high and startled, your hips chasing after it instinctively. “Bucky—what the fuck—”

But he was already tossing it across the room like it had personally offended him.

“That should be me,” he growled, low and tight. “That should be my cock inside you.”

Before you could say anything else, he was on you—mouth crushing yours, fingers dragging your panties down your thighs, then ripping them the rest of the way off with one impatient pull.

“Hey—!” you yelped against his lips. “That was new!”

“Don’t care,” he muttered, his voice gravel and heat. “I couldn’t fucking stand it. Watching you fall apart like that—on that—”

You were still gasping when he shoved his jeans down just enough, cock springing free, thick and flushed and angry, and then—

He thrust into you in one long, rough slide.

You cried out, your head falling back, the stretch sudden and perfect.

“Fucking hell, Bucky—”

He groaned, forehead pressing to yours, voice breaking.

“Better,” he breathed. “So much fucking better.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your laugh half-moan, half-disbelief as he started to move.

“You’re ridiculous,” you panted.

He thrust deeper, harder.

“You’re mine.”

You didn’t argue.

Because fuck, it felt right.

Bucky didn’t hold back.

His thrusts were deep, fast, frantic—his cock slamming into you like it was the only thing grounding him to reality. Every drive of his hips sent you upward on the bed, your hands scrabbling for purchase, your thighs locked tight around his waist as he rutted into you like a man starved.

You were both sweat-slicked and gasping, your mouths clashing in messy kisses between moans and curses, teeth grazing lips, breath mingling.

His hands gripped your thighs, pulling you impossibly closer, angling you just right—and fuck, he knew what he was doing. He angled every thrust to drag against that spot that made your vision blur, made your nails dig into his back, made your cries rise to screams.

“Mine,” he snarled, over and over, like a mantra. “You’re mine.”

“Yours,” you gasped back, helpless under the weight of him, your whole body coiled tight, heat building fast again after the cruel cycle of edging. “Fuck, Bucky—don’t stop—please—”

He groaned against your neck, his voice almost breaking from how good it felt, from how tightly you squeezed around him, from the way your body arched into him like you couldn’t get close enough.

You weren’t just taking it.

You were meeting him—rocking your hips up into every thrust, nails dragging down his back, your voice a breathless chant of his name.

You whined, the sound pure filth, your orgasm charging through you like lightning, your body clamping down around him as your eyes rolled back.

Your whole body was already a live wire—trembling, hypersensitive, soaked from everything he’d done to you. So when he finally drove into you with that punishing, possessive rhythm, it didn’t take long.

Not after being edged so many times you forgot what release felt like.

His cock filled you perfectly, every brutal thrust driving you closer to the edge you’d been denied again and again.

Then he said it.

“Gonna fill you up,” he growled into your skin, teeth grazing your jaw. “So deep—fuck—wanna keep you like this. Full of me.”

The growl in his voice. The strain. The desperation.

And that was what did it.

You came hard—violently—your orgasm tearing through you like your body had been waiting for permission to shatter.

You screamed his name, your back arched off the mattress, thighs locked around him as your walls clenched down on his cock in rhythmic waves, dragging him deeper, holding him there.

Bucky groaned, choked on the sound, hips stuttering as he tried to keep fucking you through it—but your body was relentless, milking him, coaxing him to the brink with you.

And then he lost it.

He slammed in one last time, cock twitching deep as he came with a raw, broken sound, burying his face in your neck like he could hide from how wrecked he felt.

His cum flooded you—hot, thick, and so much, mixing with yours, seeping down your thighs as you both stayed locked together, trembling, undone.

You were shaking under him, breathless, mind blank.

And still—he didn’t move.

Just held you.

Because he couldn’t let go. Because he didn’t want to.

Your breaths tangled into each other—harsh, broken, shared between barely-parted mouths.

You couldn’t tell where you ended and he began.

Bucky was still inside you, still buried to the hilt, his chest pressed to yours, his forehead against your temple as the sweat cooled on both your bodies. The only sounds were the deep, ragged inhales, the soft exhales, the occasional, stunned fuck whispered against your skin.

Neither of you spoke.

There was nothing to say—not yet.

Just the feeling of him—warm, solid, trembling slightly as he held you like if he let go, the world might pull you away.

Your fingers curled into the damp strands at the back of his neck. His hand slid down your thigh, possessive even now, thumb stroking the inside like he still needed to touch you everywhere.

You breathed into his mouth.

He breathed into yours.

And it was perfect.

But then, slowly, your body relaxed.

And your hand drifted from his hair to his shoulder, giving him a light shove—not really pushing, more like reminding.

He groaned, still reluctant to move.

You gave him another nudge. “You owe me new lingerie.”

His head lifted slightly, enough for you to see the lazy smile that spread across his flushed, post-orgasm face.

“As long as I get to pick it out too,” he murmured.

You snorted. “If you pick something crotchless, I’m setting you on fire.”

His grin widened.

“You really are the most dangerous woman alive,” he muttered against your lips.

Just when you thought he might finally pull out, Bucky shifted—

Not away.

But closer.

Suddenly, you were bombarded.

Soft kisses.

All over your face.

Your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, your lips—smothering, insistent, rapid-fire pecks between breathless murmurs, like he couldn’t kiss you fast enough to keep up with what he was feeling.

“Beautiful—”

Kiss.

“My girl—”

Kiss.

“So perfect—mine—mine—”

Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.

You burst out laughing, squirming under him as he grinned like an idiot and kept going, hands bracketing your head like he had no plans of letting you escape.

“Bucky—stop—get the fuck out of my face—!”

Your voice was sharp but your smile was wide, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, lit from the inside.

He didn’t stop.

“Never,” he whispered against your cheek. “You’re mine. I’m keeping you forever.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing breathlessly as your arms curled around his back, pulling him in anyway.

“God, you’re such a menace.”

He just kissed your nose again.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “But I’m your menace.”

And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@princeescalus @s-sh-ne @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @lilac13 @fayeatheart @Leathynn @solana-jpeg @person-005 @muchwita @ruexj283 @jarnesbames108 @iheartfictionalmen1 @daddyslilbrat962 @bucky-baby-barnes @bonnietate26 @1lorenzo-lover1 @heymydearheart @peanutbutt3rcup @doilooklikeagiveafrack @loganficsonly @taylorann2013

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

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tweedcola · 21 days ago

Text

Thank you for reblogging!

Just a lil domestic drabble with Steve and Bucky

Word Count: 372

Warnings: mentions of sex

Bucky stirs when Steve steps into the room, his enhanced hearing causing him to wake while you continue to snooze.

"Everything okay?" Bucky asks Steve under his breath.

"All fine," is the succinct answer. Now Steve's home he needs to focus his energy on his people. He's been told that a work-life balance is important. "How's our girl been?"

"Insatiable," Bucky answers, with a sly grin. "Can't believe I'm saying this punk, but I'm so glad there are two of us. Wouldn't be able to keep up with her like this all of the time."

"She tire you out old man?" Steve asks with a wicked cackle, stopping sharply when you shift against his chest in protest of the movement.

"Sounds to me like a complaint Buck," Steve murmurs, stroking his thumb against your temple and marvelling at your ability to sleep through the entire conversation.

Hope you enjoyed!

Please check out my other fics here!

#thank you!#omg thank you #stucky x reader #steve x bucky x reader

913 notes · View notes

tweedcola · 22 days ago

Text

The Education Of James Buchanan Barnes

pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 2.7k words

summary | bucky asked to learn about edging—he just didn’t expect to be blindfolded, tied to a bed, and brought to the brink twice before even getting inside you.

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v, edging, orgasm denial, begging, 69 position, face sitting, oral sex (receiving and giving), restraints, bondage, blindfolds, dom/sub elements, reader is a teasing little shit, accidental orgasm, post-nut confessions, friends to lovers, dirty talk

a/n | by popular demand. maybe a series. I actually have part 3 done, it's over 4k words, will post it maybe Tues or Wed

Taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ - ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ - ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ

divider by @cafekitsune

His arms were stretched above him, wrists bound to the headboard with silk scarves—deep blue, smooth, soft, but knotted just tight enough to hold.

“Too tight?” you asked, fingers brushing over the delicate bindings, eyes flicking down to his face.

Bucky looked up at you, his bare chest rising slow with each breath. He tugged lightly—testing them—then gave you a crooked smirk.

“I could snap these in half if I wanted.”

Your brow lifted. “But you won’t.”

His smirk faded just slightly, replaced by something softer. More hesitant. “Are you sure about this?”

You leaned over him, your thighs straddling his hips, hair falling like a curtain between you as your voice dropped low.

“You said you wanted to know what edging was like,” you murmured, your fingers skating down the center of his chest. “I figured we’d learn in real time.”

He shifted beneath you, bound but still twitchy. “I read about it,” he muttered. “Didn’t sound very nice.”

You grinned, slow and wicked. “It’s not supposed to be nice. It’s supposed to be maddening.”

His eyes flicked to yours—nervous, excited, turned on out of his mind.

You leaned in closer, voice brushing his ear.

“It’s delayed gratification. Every time I get you close and pull away? The orgasm you finally get will be so much better.”

He exhaled hard.

Your hand slid lower.

“And if you’re good—” your mouth grazed his jaw, “I’ll let you come while your mouth is buried between my legs.”

His hips bucked instinctively, and the scarves tugged tight above him.

You smiled.

“Oh—and this,” you murmured.

Bucky tensed as you reached behind you and pulled out a strip of black fabric. Smooth. Soft. Purposeful.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, eyes narrowing just a little.

You leaned in again, lips inches from his as you began tying the blindfold behind his head. “Enhancing your senses. Or something.”

“Or something?”

“It’s very scientific,” you said seriously, even as your grin gave you away. “Like, ninety percent of your brain’s sexual response is... sensory rerouting. Or whatever.”

He huffed. “That’s not a real thing.”

“Sounds real enough,” you said, finishing the knot.

He blinked under the blindfold, adjusting against the headboard, visibly trying to breathe through this new shift. He was hard already—still—and growing more tense by the second.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing, do you?” he muttered, voice low.

You shrugged, that wicked smile creeping across your lips. “Nope. But hey—first time for everything.”

He opened his mouth to protest again, probably to suggest something logical, like a safe word, or releasing one wrist just in case—

But you didn’t give him the chance.

You leaned in and kissed him, hard and slow, your lips moving over his with purpose.

To shut him up. To distract him. To take control.

And when he moaned into your mouth, wrists tugging slightly against the scarves again?

You knew you had him.

You shifted lower, settling between his legs, the sheets rustling softly beneath your knees. Bucky lay perfectly still, jaw tight, hands flexing uselessly in their restraints. The blindfold kept his lashes fluttering, the rest of his face caught somewhere between restraint and pleading.

You reached for the waistband of his boxers.

“Gonna take these off now,” you said quietly, voice like silk. “That okay?”

His head nodded once—shaky, deliberate. “Yeah. Yeah.”

You hooked your fingers into the waistband and slowly, painfully slowly, began to peel the fabric down his hips. His breath hitched. The elastic caught momentarily on his cock, and then it sprang free—thick, flushed, leaking at the tip.

Your breath caught.

You dragged the boxers down his thighs, then all the way off, letting your eyes drink him in as you tossed them aside.

God, he was beautiful.

Strong, thick thighs spread wide beneath you, all that power gone pliant. His abs tensed as you let your fingers drift gently down his hip, over his inner thigh.

Your gaze dropped to his cock—hard and straining, flushed deep red at the tip, the vein along the underside throbbing. He was leaking freely now, precum smeared across his lower stomach, the kind of mess that made your mouth water.

You reached for him.

Wrapped your hand around the base—warm, heavy, pulsing in your palm.

He groaned, deep and broken.

Your thumb slid over the tip, gathering the slick there, and you started to stroke—slow, languid, base to tip and back again, no rush, just pressure. Measured. Precise.

He twitched in your grip.

His whole body arched slightly, restrained and helpless, breath pouring out in ragged gasps.

“You’re so hard,” you whispered, stroking him a little faster. “All from just a few little touches.”

“Jesus—” he breathed. “You’re driving me insane.”

You smirked, leaning closer, breath ghosting over the head of his cock.

“Good. That means it’s working.”

You kept stroking—slow at first, deliberately teasing, your hand sliding up and down his cock in smooth, controlled movements. The slick from his own arousal made each pass easier, messier. His breath hitched each time your grip tightened near the head, every movement wringing another helpless sound from his throat.

“Shit,” Bucky groaned, arching his back slightly, wrists pulling tight against the silk restraints. “Feels so good…”

You smiled, leaning forward, letting your lips hover just above the head of his cock, not touching—not yet.

Then you picked up the pace.

Your strokes grew faster, more purposeful. Your other hand cupped his balls, gently massaging, rolling them in your palm with just enough pressure to make him twitch.

His thighs tensed beneath you.

“Oh fuck,” he gasped, hips jerking, muscles locking tight as you worked him faster. “Don’t stop—don’t—fuck, I’m—”

You stopped.

Just like that. Your hand left him.

He cried out, an almost desperate, broken sound escaping his throat as he bucked into the empty air.

“No—” he groaned. “Fuck—why—why did you stop?”

You sat back, slowly licking your fingers, watching his cock twitch helplessly in front of you.

“Because,” you said softly, “that was the edge.”

He panted, face turned toward the ceiling, chest rising and falling like he’d just run ten miles.

“That—was cruel.”

You grinned. “That was the first lesson.”

You leaned in close again, lips brushing his jaw.

“Now we do it again.”

You watched him pant beneath you, cock flushed, pulsing against his stomach, his whole body trembling with frustration and heat.

You reached up and gently tugged the blindfold away.

His eyes blinked open—glassy, wrecked, beautiful.

“Think you can handle more?” you asked softly, brushing damp hair from his forehead.

He swallowed, throat working. “Depends what you’re planning.”

You smiled.

Then shifted—slow and deliberate—climbing over him.

Straddling his chest.

His eyes widened just slightly as you braced your knees on either side of his head, your dripping core hovering just above his mouth.

“I was thinking…” you purred, lowering yourself just enough that he could smell you, “you could eat me out while I suck your cock.”

His mouth parted, breath catching.

“Are you serious?”

You smirked. “Bucky. You begged for this. You fantasized about it.”

His hands flexed in their restraints, body tense beneath you.

“You wanna taste me?” you asked, your voice low, sultry.

“Fuck—yes,” he said, already trying to lift his head. “Please.”

You lowered yourself slowly, your pussy brushing his lips—and he groaned, hands pulling at the scarves, tongue darting out instantly to lick a firm stripe through your folds.

The moment his mouth closed around your clit, your breath hitched.

And you rewarded him.

Sliding down his body, you reached for his cock again, wrapping your hand around him, stroking slow.

Then your mouth followed.

Warm.

Wet.

Deep.

He moaned into your pussy, tongue flicking desperately against your clit as you swallowed him down, your mouth working in rhythm with the roll of your hips against his face.

The sound of his groaning against you while your mouth dragged over the length of him? Filthy.

Perfect.

You were both shaking now, caught in that beautiful tension—heat, friction, mouths and hands and bodies tangled in something raw and so fucking good.

You moaned around him as his tongue curled inside you.

And he bucked beneath you, completely gone.

You lowered yourself fully onto his face, letting him take all of you—and he did, with no hesitation.

Bucky groaned like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted in his mouth, his tongue dragging through your folds in slow, deliberate licks before latching onto your clit with reckless devotion. His lips sealed around you, his tongue flicking, swirling, pressing just right, like he was memorizing the shape of your pleasure.

You gasped around his cock.

Your mouth stretched around him again, tongue flattening beneath the head as you swallowed him deep, slow strokes that made his hips jerk beneath you. You hollowed your cheeks, moaned low around him—just to make it worse—and the sound vibrated up through his length.

He moaned into your pussy, and the vibration alone made your thighs shake.

Your hands gripped his thighs, his hips, anything—but his hands were still tied, his body helpless beneath you. His only weapon was his mouth, and god, was he using it.

Your hips rocked against him in time with your strokes, chasing your high, grinding into his face as he feasted on you like he couldn’t breathe without it.

“Just like that,” you gasped around him. “Fuck—Bucky—”

You felt it building.

The tight coil deep in your belly, his mouth never stopping, his tongue relentless.

You sucked him deeper.

Faster.

And just as he groaned again—vibrating with desperation—you came.

Hard.

Your entire body clenched, thighs trembling around his head, back arching as your orgasm crashed through you like fire. You cried out, lips parting around his cock, head tilting back as the pleasure pulsed through every nerve ending.

Bucky groaned—his tongue still lapping, still savoring every last drop of you.

And then?

You pushed up.

Lifted your hips off his face.

Pulled your mouth off his cock with a slick pop.

His hips jerked upward.

“Fuck—no—” he gasped, voice ragged, cock twitching in your hand. “I was—please—I was so fucking close—”

You smirked, breathless, licking your lips as you sat up on his thighs.

“I know.”

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, glancing down at his flushed, twitching cock.

“Lesson two: just because you got me off, doesn’t mean you get yours.”

He groaned in agony, head tipping back against the pillows, chest heaving.

And still—his cock was hard.

So very hard.

Bucky was trembling beneath you.

Sweat slicked his chest, his abs tight, his cock flushed an angry red as it twitched helplessly against his stomach. His jaw was clenched, mouth parted, breath ragged like he was barely hanging on.

And he wasn’t.

His wrists flexed again in the restraints—not from frustration now, but need. Desperate, aching need.

“C’mon, baby,” he rasped, his voice low and cracked and wrecked. “Please. Please—give it to me. I need it.”

You tilted your head, your lips curling in that familiar, wicked grin.

“What do you need, Sergeant?”

His eyes locked on yours, burning with something raw. Unfiltered.

“You. Inside you. Now.”

You let the silence hang for just a second longer.

Then finally—finally—you shifted.

Your hands braced on his chest as you lifted yourself, hovered above him, your dripping core poised right over the tip of his cock.

His eyes blew wide.

He felt it—the heat of you, the way your folds barely brushed his head.

“Fuck—fuck—please—”

You lowered yourself slowly, letting the very tip of him slide inside you—just barely.

And that was all it took.

The second you sank down even an inch, his whole body locked.

His back arched, his head fell back, and he let out a deep, broken groan—like it was being ripped from his chest.

And then he came.

Hard.

Hot.

Sudden.

“Oh—fuck—” he choked, his hips jerking up once involuntarily as he spilled inside you, cock pulsing helplessly as he gasped through the high.

You froze—eyes wide—as you felt it.

The heat.

The rush.

His orgasm hitting you in one unexpected, uncontrolled, wrecking wave.

You stared down at him, lips parted in shock, your body still poised above him with only the tip inside.

He blinked up at you, dazed and red-faced, voice hoarse.

“…Shit.”

You blinked again.

Then grinned.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, barely able to hide the gleeful amusement in your voice.

You blinked once.

Then again.

“…Did you just?”

Bucky stared up at you, wide-eyed, flushed, completely wrecked.

“No,” he said immediately, too fast. Too flat.

You raised a brow.

“That is probably the worst lie ever spoken in the history of existence.”

He opened his mouth like he might argue.

But then your body shifted just slightly—and you felt it.

The warmth.

The evidence.

“Considering I can feel your cum inside me,” you said sweetly, “you wanna try that one again?”

He groaned, dragging his hands—still tied—to the sides of his head like he could disappear into the mattress.

You smiled, all smug satisfaction and teasing heat.

“Well,” you murmured, “at least we learned something tonight.”

He peeked at you through his fingers. “Yeah?”

You leaned down, kissed the corner of his mouth, soft and smug.

“You’re terrible at edging.”

You reached up, your fingers gently undoing the knots around his wrists. The silk slipped free easily, falling in soft coils onto the sheets. He groaned quietly as his arms dropped to his sides, muscles loose, completely spent.

You lay down beside him, cheek resting against his shoulder, your body still warm and glowing, every nerve thrumming from everything you’d just done.

He stayed quiet, chest rising slowly beneath your hand.

Then you tilted your head, glanced up at him with a sly smile.

“So…” you said, voice low and lazy. “How was it?”

He let out a breathless laugh—half-mortified, half-stunned. “Like being emotionally mugged by my own dick.”

You snorted, burying your face in his shoulder. “That’s… definitely going in the quote book.”

Then, after a moment, you felt his fingers twitch slightly against your waist.

He cleared his throat.

You glanced up, catching the tiny flicker of hesitation in his expression.

He was thinking.

Hard.

And that alone made you smirk. “What? Got another fantasy to confess?”

But his voice was quieter this time. Not sheepish. Just… uncertain.

“I was actually wondering,” he said slowly, like he was piecing the sentence together in real time, “if you… maybe… would want to go out with me?”

Your brows lifted in surprise.

You turned your head on his shoulder, looked up at him. His cheeks were flushed—still pink from the exertion, the orgasm, the confession.

“You mean like... a date?” you asked, eyes searching his.

He gave a short, nervous huff of laughter, eyes flicking up to the ceiling.

“Yeah. I just…” He shifted a little, like the words didn’t sit quite right in his mouth yet. “I don’t want this to just be sex. Or whatever this is. I like being around you. Even when you're impossible. Especially then.”

Your teasing grin softened just a bit. He was rambling. And adorable.

“You’re asking me now?” you said, one brow arched. “While I’m literally still dripping with your cum?”

His jaw dropped slightly, horror and exasperation all mixed in. “Jesus Christ—don’t say it like that—”

You leaned up, kissed him just below the corner of his mouth, still grinning. “Relax, Sarge.”

Then you met his eyes, warm and open.

“Of course I’ll go out with you.”

His whole body relaxed under you, like a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding finally let go.

You nuzzled closer, dropping your head back on his chest, sighing dramatically.

“But you are buying dinner. Since you came before the real show even started.”

He groaned. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

You smirked.

“Not a chance.”

He turned his head toward you, eyes soft now, sleepy but focused. “You are amazing.”

You grinned. “Obviously.”

A beat passed.

Then his hand slid over your waist, pulling you a little closer.

“Redemption round tomorrow?”

You kissed his jaw, sweet and slow.

“We’ll see if you earn it, Sergeant.”

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@princeescalus @s-sh-ne @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @lilac13 @fayeatheart @Leathynn @solana-jpeg @person-005 @muchwita @Ruexj283 @jarnesbames108 @iheartfictionalmen1 @daddyslilbrat962 @bucky-baby-barnes @bonnietate26 @1lorenzo-lover1 @heymydearheart

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

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tweedcola · 23 days ago

Note

Do you mind writing abt bucky getting jealous bc fairy has been fucking the same guy for a while so he's afraid of her being committed to someone else? Tysm, & I love ur work!

sounds good. thank you!

pickle man

18+

When Bucky tells you to end things with the guy you're seeing because he doesn't trust him, you ask him to point someone out he does trust - enter Dane Whitman; a seemingly innocent, gentle creature. What Bucky didn't expect, however, was for Dane to have you wrapped around his finger.

Content Warning: Mob!Bucky x Best Friend!Reader, protective!bucky, mutual pining, mention of sex, light smut, Dane Whitman x Reader, slight angst, possessive!bucky, ever so slightly dark!bucky. Set pre-wedding!

Series Masterlist

note: finally got around to watching game of thrones so this is my way of writing a jon snow fic (dane is kit harington's character in eternals hehe)

another note: this has been in my drafts for over a year oops (i finished game of thrones ages ago)

"It was right here. I could've sworn it," Bucky mutters, shaking his head.

"Maybe it's moved?" You ask with a shrug.

"None of the other stalls have moved," He points out, before his eyes light up. "There he is!" Suddenly, he takes your hand and drags you over to a small stall where a man stands selling a range of jarred pickles.

"This is what I was talking about," Bucky says with a grin, picking up a jar. "Tastes just like how my Aunt makes them back home."

"They're on special offer today," The man tells him with a polite smile. "Two for six dollars."

Bucky's already rifling through his wallet and taking out a handful of cash to hand to him. "Here. I'll take it all."

While the man excitedly packages up all the jars with stars in his eyes, you pull Bucky back and huff. "Now, can we talk about Lin?" You ask with a pout.

"I've told you where I stand," Bucky says sternly.

"What about where I stand?" You counter stubbornly.

"He's bad news," He states, brows furrowing. "What have I told you about dating guys like that?"

"But I'm bored," You whine, pulling on his arm. "You never let me date anyone. How am I supposed to get my dose of male validation?"

"I validate you more than necessary," He points out flatly. "Don't be so greedy."

"Sometimes, a girl needs a little fling," You say, before gasping. "I have the best idea!"

He raises a brow. "Yeah? And what's that, fairy?"

"I'll let you pick someone for me to have a one night stand with," You suggest with a grin. "That way, there's literally no way you won't approve of him."

Taking a few moments to think about it, Bucky sighs. "Anyone I pick?"

"Absolutely anyone," You confirm. "I just want someone to have fun with."

He narrows his eyes at you, contemplating his options for a while.

"Here you go, Sir," The man at the stall says as he pushes forward the eight bags of jars. "But you've overpaid - here's your change."

"No need, keep it," Bucky says.

"Wow, thank you!" The man says with a smile.

Suddenly, Bucky turns back to you. "Alright, fairy, I'll go for your bright idea," He says, filling you with excitement.

"Yes! Who do you have in mind?" You ask, half-expecting, and hoping, that he offers up one of his men.

With a sly smirk, he smugly says, "Pickle man." He's sure the man will bore you pretty quickly, which is why he's so confident in choosing him as your suitor.

You're taken aback, thrown for a loop as you look back at the man behind the stall. In all honesty, he's not bad looking, and you're sure you can have some fun with him. With a smile, you look back up at Bucky. "Alrighty, then," You say mischievously. "And remember- you picked him!"

"Dane!"

"C'mere, darling," He growls, nuzzling his face into your neck as he pins you to the bed. "You're not going anywhere."

"I'm gonna be so late," You complain through laughter.

"Just call in sick," Dane mutters, grinding his semi against your crotch. "Stay. Let's fuck all day."

You let out a sigh when he finds that spot on your neck, in utter bliss. It was only meant to be a one-night thing; you weren't planning on seeing him again after Friday, but now it's Tuesday and he's still here.

"Be a good girl and stay here with me."

And you're not complaining.

Dane flips you onto your stomach with no warning before sliding his hand down your abdomen. When he reaches your pussy, his fingers rub through your folds and rub on your clit, making you writhe beneath him.

"Oh, fuck, Dane," You moan, grabbing fistfuls of the sheets. "Just like that."

Just as he sinks two fingers into your entrance, you hear the sound of the front door opening.

Immediately, you push yourself up and frown. "What the fuck?" You whisper.

"Expecting someone?" Dane asks, continuing to fuck you with his fingers with no shame.

"I- fuck, I don't know," You reply, unable to produce a coherent thought.

"Fairy?"

Your eyes shoot open and you grab Dane's hand. "Wait. It's Jamie," You hiss, quickly moving from under him and getting up to your feet.

Dane just lets out a disappointed grunt while you rush to grab your nightgown and pull it on. You speed out your room and make sure to shut the door behind you, walking out to the living room.

Bucky's standing by the kitchen island on his phone, and he looks up when he hears you walk in, smiling when he sees you. "Hey, sleepy head," He greets you with a raised brow. "You're not ready for work yet?"

"Uh, I guess not," You say as you walk closer to him, glancing back towards the hall before whispering, "Dane's here."

Bucky immediately frowns at your words. "What? Pickle man? He's still here?" He asks incredulously.

"Mhm," You hum as you lean against the counter with a dreamy smile. "He's... incredible, Jamie."

"Oh, yeah?" He asks, in pure disbelief.

"He's an animal," You say, grinning. "An insatiable animal."

Bucky's hands clench into fists at the thought of another man being insatiably animalistic with you, but does his best to keep calm. "Pretty long one night stand," He comments flatly.

"I know!" You exclaim giddily. "I wasn't planning on asking him to stay this long, but... you know that feeling when you just don't want someone to leave?"

All too fucking well.

Bucky nods slowly, resting his hands on his hips. "Alright. Okay, fairy, you have your fun," He states casually, taking a step closer to you. "But once he's out that door, that's it. He's never coming over again."

His order makes you frown. "But-"

"No buts," He cuts you off sternly. "You heard me. And you do as I say, don't you?"

Deciding not to piss him off, you nod. "Yes, Jamie."

With his brows still furrowed together, he leans forward to kiss your forehead. "I'll pick you up in a couple hours for lunch," He tells you before leaving.

When the door shuts, you hear Dane calling out for you. As much as you don't wanna piss Bucky off, you also don't want to deprive yourself of Dane's skills.

"Come on, baby," He calls from the bedroom. "I'm so fuckin' hard for you."

You bite your lip. There's no way you're letting him leave.

You walk through to the back of the club, bopping your head to the beat of the loud music. As you approach the security guards at the red rope, you open your mouth to say, "Hi, we're-"

"Of course, Miss Y/L/N," One of them quickly says, having recognized you from the countless times you've been in here with Bucky. He seems a little confused when he sees you holding Dane's hand, but he says nothing as he opens the rope to let you both walk through to the VIP area where Bucky's sitting with Sam and a few others.

Everyone looks surprised to see you with your gentleman friend - it's the first time you've brought one to the club. Sam and Peter each sneak looks at Bucky to gauge his reaction, but he does his best to keep the annoyance off his face.

Sam's the first on his feet, greeting you with a quick hug. "All good, Y/N?" He asks you, giving Dane a look of distrust.

"Sam, this is Dane," You introduce with a smile. "Dane, Sam."

The others aren't very welcoming to Dane, least of all Bucky. He watches with a silent glare and a clenched jaw as you dance and drink carelessly in his arms, but he remains in his seat, refusing to let his anger get the best of him.

With a firm handshake, Sam gives Dane a simple nod.

"Peter," You whisper, pulling him closer. "This is the guy I told you about who's been rocking my world."

Nodding slowly, Peter looks Dane up and down. "Nice."

It was his choice. He did tell you to sleep with the fucking pickle man - but he didn't think you'd carry on seeing him, and definitely not for this long. In an attempt to take his mind off of you and off of how badly he wants to yank you out of the pickle man's arms and back into his, where you belong, Bucky decides to distract himself.

She's not you. And he wants her to be you. But you're with him.

The woman on his lap is saying and doing all the right things, but he just can't get into it. Whenever he looks at her, he can only see all the parts of her face that make her so different to you. Her voice isn't anything like yours, making him cringe whenever she whispers in his ears. Her body doesn't feel the same in his hands, her hair doesn't graze gently across his skin like yours does when the breeze blows through it when he drives you around in the convertible.

Fuck it.

It's been an hour since you arrived. Bucky gestures for the woman to get off him before he stands up and makes his way over to where you're standing at the bar with Dane. Sam nudges Peter with wide eyes, nodding towards you as they eagerly wait to watch the situation unfold.

"Watch this," Sam says smugly. "And you say he isn't a sap for her."

Bucky approaches you just as you place your lips on Dane's and clears his throat, forcing you two to pull apart.

"Jamie!" You exclaim gleefully.

He looks at Dane with a firm stare. "Give me a minute," Bucky states, and it's not the least polite way he's ever whisked you away from another man.

Dane happily agrees, giving you a quick kiss before disappearing. The peck makes you smile wider, which Bucky doesn't fail to notice. He holds back an eye roll as he moves closer to you.

"What did I tell you last month, hmm?" He asks you with a raised brow.

"You said he's not coming back to my place once he leaves," You remind him innocently. "I haven't brought him back to my place since."

Bucky's anger is simmering within him, the flare of his nostril exposing his dormant rage to you. "Don't get smart with me, fairy," He warns you. "You've had your fun. Now tell him to fuck off."

"But I like him!" You claim with a pout. "What's your problem with him Jamie? He's nice, and safe, and exactly the opposite of all the guys you forbid me from dating."

You've got him there. Dane is the epitome of a nice guy, at least outside the bedroom, and he's the safe option Bucky's been begging you to go for since he met you. But he never thought you actually would. He thought he'd always be telling you to dump assholes and bad men, and he found comfort in that. Comfort in the fact that he had an actual reason to disapprove of the other men in your life. Here, though, he has no leg to stand on. No reason to disapprove, other than-

"I don't like seeing you with him."

Taken aback, you raise a brow. "Excuse me?" You ask him with a scoff. "And who the fuck-"

Suddenly, Bucky grabs your arm and pulls you closer. "Do not ask me who I am, Y/N, when you know the answer," He says gravely, staring deeply into your eyes. "When you know you're mine."

Your stomach flips as your heart races. It's rare that Bucky shows this side of him, and you almost forget it exists sometimes. Since the start, he's had an unspoken hold over you - one that you openly let him have. Part of being the King of New York's closest friend means belonging to him. Though you aren't one of his henchmen, there is still a power dynamic in play, no matter how slight or subtle. You know he could have Dane killed in seconds with just one look at Sam, and that's what you signed up for when you agreed to be his friend. You have to take the ugly with the good and the bad. Bucky's a nice man, nicer than most have ever been to you, but he's also a powerful man. And powerful men get what they want.

"What do you want me to do, Jamie?" You ask him, fully prepared to obey whatever order he gives you.

He places a hand on your waist, stroking the exposed skin of your hip with his thumb. "Tell him it's over," Is his demand. He utters it lowly, with a sense of finality. The tone you usually only ever hear him use with his men. It says this isn't negotiable. There's no arguing. No talking back. And he doesn't like using that tone with you - that's why he rarely ever does. He doesn't want to be someone you're afraid of, but there are times like this when he can't help but exert some of his power over you.

"Okay," You say with a nod.

His hand squeezes your hip. "Good girl," Bucky mumbles, using his other hand to cup your cheek. "Go on. I'll be here when you're done."

You nod again, accepting the soft kiss on your forehead before turning to leave him. Making your way over to Dane, you'd usually feel sick to your stomach knowing you're about to hurt someone's feelings, but you only feel calm knowing it's what Bucky wants.

He's sitting with Sam and Peter and drinking a beer. When he sees you, he sits up with a smile. "Hey, baby," He greets you, holding his hand out to you.

You take it and sit next to him, before giving Peter and Sam pointed looks. "Could you guys give us a minute, please?"

They agree and walk away, leaving the two of you alone. "Everything okay?" Dane asks you. "Your friends are cool. That Sam guy's pretty intense, though. Practically interrogated me."

"Ha, yeah, he can be like that," You say with an awkward laugh. "Uh, so, listen..."

"Oh, no. Using your serious voice," He says with a chuckle, placing a hand on your thigh. "What's up?"

With a sigh, you look him in the eyes. "I've had so much fun the past few weeks with you, Dane, but... I don't think we should see each other anymore," You say with a wince.

His face drops. "Oh," He utters, taking his hand off your thigh. "Is it because I almost accidentally put it in your ass last night?"

"No, it's not," You assure him. "It's just... this wasn't ever supposed to be long-term, you know?"

Dane nods slowly. "Right. I get it," He mumbles, unable to meet your eyes.

"Sorry," You whisper before standing up and walking back over to Bucky, who's nursing a whisky at the bar with a smug look on his face. "You look happy," You comment with a raised brow.

"Did you end it?" He asks, though there's no reason to.

"Mhm," You reply, sinking into his side.

Meanwhile, Sam and Peter walk back over to a somber looking Dane.

"That's my girl," Bucky says, kissing your cheek as he wraps his arm around you. "Did he take it well?"

"Like a champ," You answer him.

"Good," He utters. "Now, what do you say to us getting out of here and getting some food?"

Looking up at him with a smile, you nod. "Sounds like a plan, Jamie."

"Hey, man," Sam says bluntly. "You alright?"

Dane, keeping his eyes on the table, nods. "I will be," He replies.

Sam rolls his eyes but does well not to tell Dane to stop feeling sorry for himself. "You'll be good, man," He tells him. "Plenty more fish in the sea."

With that, Sam walks away, while Peter sticks around. He clears his throat and looks around before subtly slipping a piece of paper with his phone number on into Dane's hand. Taken aback, Dane looks up at Peter with wide eyes.

"For, y'know, if you're feeling lonely tonight," Peter says, before quickly scooting off again.

poor dane </3 but the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else :P

mob!bucky masterlist

i no longer have a taglist, follow @kinanabinksupdates and turn on notifications for updates.

buy me a kofi <3

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