Pairing: Lee Bodecker x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 296
Audience: Teen+
Synopsis: You make Lee jealous when you tell him about your day.
A/N: June 3rd submission for June Jukebox Scribbles with the song prompt Mack the Knife by Bobby Darin. Lyrics in bold.
Event Masterlist | Main Masterlist | AO3
You stir a pot of green beans on the stove before wiping your hands on your apron. Working part-time as a bank teller at Knockemstiff Savings & Loan keeps you busy, and you love sharing town gossip with Lee when he comes over.
"Now did ya hear 'bout Louie Miller? He disappeared, babe, after drawin' out all his hard-earned cash."
Lee shakes his head where he's stationed at your small dining table with a beer. "Louie Miller hasn't earned a dollar through God's honest hard work a day in his life. He's a trust fund kid suckin' on a silver spoon."
"Well, I heard he's headin' up North. Gonna buy some real estate," you say as you check the temperature on the chicken. You're making one of Lee's favorite dinners in the hopes that he'll stay the night.
"I never liked the guy," he spouts, narrowing his eyes at you.
"Well, he was awful nice to me today," you say, poking at Lee's jealous buttons.
"What do ya mean by that, darlin'?"
"Oh, just complimentin' my dress. I wore that new red one my mom sent me. Sayin' "you're too pretty to be workin' somewhere so dull"," you tell him, tasting mashed potatoes from your index finger.
"Well, if he hadn't already hit the road, I'd be pullin' that smarmy son of a bitch over," he huffs. "No one talks to my girl like that."
You hum, satisfied. "Didn't realize I was your girl, Lee."
He stands up and boxes you in against the kitchen counter. "Not sure what got you thinkin' that you aren't mine," he breathes down your neck, hands exploring under your apron before pulling back and assessing the pots and pans on the stovetop. "Dinner looks good. I think I'll stay here tonight."
PAIRING: tfatws!bucky barnes x female reader
WORD COUNT: 298
WARNINGS: nightmare, slight angst, brief mentions of hydra and the winter soldier, no use of y/n, established relationship.
SONG PROMPT: right place, wrong time by dr. john
LYRICS: âhead is in a bad place, wonder what itâs good for.â
NOTE: not too much about to say about this one other than i forgot to write it yesterday đ
event masterlist | day three | day five | main masterlist
The bed shifts as Bucky bolts upright.Â
Cold sweat clings to him, the echoes of past gunshots still ringing in his ears and old codewords making his skin crawl with a dreadful anticipation of something that isn't coming.
But still, Bucky waits.
He waits for that switch to click, for himself to be shoved back, locked away, and for the Winter Soldier to take his place.
He waits for the chilling, clinical sound of a voice that isn't his own to leave his lips, acknowledging the shift, ready to comply.
It never comes, and it never will again.
"Buck?"
Your sleepy voice draws him back, an anchor to reality he desperately needed before he spiralled further.
"Sorry." Bucky rasps, his heart starting to slow, his breathing beginning to even out st the sound of your voice.
Hydra's gone, he recites it in his head like a mantra.
You can tell he's had a nightmare by the rigid tension in his shoulders, so you rest your hand against his spine. A grounding, tender touch.
"You're okay." You murmur.
Bucky nods stiffly, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes for a moment before letting them drop into his lap.
"My head's just. . ." His jaw ticks, watching the metal plates of his arm shift as his hand clenches, "It's still in a bad place. . . sometimes I wonder what it's good for."
"Lay back down."
He shifts onto his side, facing you. You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek which makes his eyes flutter.
"Healing isn't linear," You remind him, "Take every day as it comes."
"What if I never heal?"
You smile softly, "You've already started."
"Thanks to you." He mumbles, curling his hand around yours.
"No, Bucky," You whisper, "You did that on your own."
đ·ïž: @metal-armed-muse @juniebjonesin @kileyking @nightfirecomit @chocolatemilkshakex @spring-soldier @spideyskywalker @phoenix-in-writing @buckytakethewheel + to be added to the tag list? comment on this post or send in an ask!
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader
Authors note: here goes my next entry for the June Jukebox Scribbles event.
June 4th June 4th - Right Place, Wrong Time - Dr. John / âBut I'm having such a good timeâ
Dividers by @/saradika-graphics
Warnings: SMUT 18+
Word Count: 300
Summary: it's kinda my version of why it went poorly when Bucky spoke to Sam about the New Avengers đ . Bucky thinks he can tease you during an important breefing until you find him during a video call with Sam...
âThe extraction point is here,â you tap with your finger on your padlet, and an image appears on the screen at the end of the room.Â
All heads turn toward it. All but one. Bucky sits next to you, looking far too innocent for the way his metal hand is sliding up your inner thigh under the long table.
âThere are several retreat routesâŠ,â your voice suddenly takes a higher pitch and you choke as his fingers brush higher, teasing the edge of your panties.Â
Fuck, wearing a skirt to the breefing was definitely a mistake.Â
You glance at him with a pleading face. The smug look he gives you makes your hand itch to smack him if only the whole team wouldnât be here to witness it. Â
You grab a scrap of paper, scribble something and slide it toward him.
Stop!
Bucky reads, writes something back and flicks the note your way.Â
But I'm having such a good time.
The video call has just started as you slip inside the small meeting room. Bucky raises his eyes from the screen and waves dismissingly.
You almost turn around to leave but then stop suddenly. There is just a moment of hesitation before you drop to your knees and crawl under the desk.Â
âItâs not really about the copyright, Sam, isnât itâŠ,â Buckyâs voice suddenly fades into a sharp gasp as you settle between his spread thighs and unzip his pants.Â
You smile wickedly as Buckyâs metal hand grips the armrest. Heâs already half-hard when you pull him free.Â
âStop it,â he hisses under his breath, muting his mic for half a second.
You look up at him through your lashes.Â
âBut Iâm having such a good time,â you whisper and drag your tongue slowly up the underside of his cock.
A/N: day 18 of January Jumble Scribbles with prompt "You started this." // image found on Google
Your feet know where you're walking before your mind does. To your solace. Your personal piece of Heaven wrapped in sin. To him.
He smells your perfume before he sees you and closes his eyes, breathing deeply. Past moments with you flash before his eyes in quick succession: the sunlight hitting your hair just so, the way you always asked for a cigarette when you'd been drinking, and the way you walked out of his life in a hurry more than a year ago.
"Never thought I'd see you again," he murmurs, turning in his desk chair. You look stunningâeven more beautiful somehow⊠as if that's possible, and yet.
"Well, here I am," you mutter, shrugging your shoulders. His hair is longer, and new ink curls up his left forearm. He looks good.
"Here you are," he repeats, leaning back in his seat.
Your eyes betray you and dart quickly to the seam of his dress pants⊠the seam that is working overtime.
"Missed this?" He asks, standing up and walking around his desk to you.
"N-no," you stutter as he circles you like a lion playing with its eventual prey. "IâBucky, I'm in trouble."
He stops short and looks into your eyes. "What kind of trouble?"
"It's a long story, but I need a lawyer," you say with a sigh. "I need your help."
"You know plenty of lawyers," he mutters. "Why me? Just admit that you missed me, doll."
You roll your eyes before admitting that yes, you miss him. He takes a step closer, running his nose along the pulse point in your neck and inhaling. "I've thought about you every day since you left," he admits with a rasp.
"What are you doing?" You ask as you close your eyes in pleasure at the feel of his skin on yours.
"You started this," he whispers. "By coming here. Don't stop now."
Summary: After bombing your European History exam, you seek comfort from your secret boyfriend, Professor James B. Barnes.
Pairing: Professor James Barnes x College Student!Reader
Word count: 2.5k
Warnings/tags: porn with absolutely no plot; secret relationship; age gap (bucky in his 40s, reader in her 20s); semi-public sex (office sex); student anxiety; student stress relief; kind of comfort sex?; oral sex (f receiving); fingering; praise kink/worship kink; one instance of pussy pronouns; use of petname (love & goddess); bucky is the gentlest lover; bucky loves being on his knees; no use of y/n; unbetaâd
Notes: so. we're all crazy about the new cartier photoshoot, right? right. i feel like every time a new Seb photoshoot comes out, some new inspiration for Professor Barnes comes to the light for me. here's the new hallucination somewhere in that universe.
Dim lights of the humanities building are practically vibrating as you walk through the hallway. Thereâs a chance it might just be the sheer volume of caffeine and panic coursing through your veins causing you to feel that way, too.
Itâs half past six in the afternoon when you open the door to office 304, the one that has Professor James B. Barnes written on a small rectangle in golden letters. You donât knock. Simply push the door open, slip inside and click it shut behind you, the sound definitely too loud in the quiet hallway now that most students have already gone home.
Inside, Professor Barnes, who has the reputation for being the toughest grader in the department and object of half the campusâ unrequited crushes, looks up from his desk, one brow arched, red pen hovering whatever he had been grading, silver-rimmed glasses perched on his nose and sleeves rolled up to his forearms.
You recognize it immediately, the slightly judgemental expression of someone who was not expecting to have his work interrupted with even as much as a knock; but the moment he notices the expression on your face, your hands still shaking with adrenaline, his own shifts from professional uptightness to something much softer. A soft look youâve come to know, too, after the two of you began a secret relationship a little over four months ago.
âSorry,â you say, already stumbling through words. âSorry, I know I didnât knock, I justâ"
 âCome in. Lock the door.â His voice drops, shifting from Professor Barnes to your James in the space of a few words.
You do just that. Then you stand there, backpack still hanging off one shoulder, hands twisting the strap.
âIâm freaking out about the European History exam,â you start. Professor Barnes shows no signs of being bothered by you immediately firing information his way.
âSit down first.â
âI canât sit down, James. Iâve been sitting for the past four hours, trying toâ" You drop your bag onto the floor and start pacing the narrow strip of space between his bookshelf and the leather couch pushed against the wall. âI completely bombed it, okay? I know I did. Question three asked about the socioeconomic impacts of the Treaty of Tordesillas. I wrote about trade routes, James. Why did I write about trade routes? That wasnât the prompt. And then I couldnât remember some exact years, so I guessed, and Iâm pretty sure I guessed about two decades off. If I fail this examââ
âPlease, sitââ
ââmy GPA drops, and if my GPA drops, I lose my seminar slot for next semester, and then my entire track is ruined, and I'll end up living in a cardboard boxââ
âLove.â
You stop, the way you always stop when he calls you that, like your mind still hasnât quite learned to process that this man, older, more experienced, with a salt and pepper beard that makes your knees weak, would want to call you love.
James is leaning back in his chair now, arms crossed with muscles straining slightly against the shirt, and watching you with a particular patient expression, despite your serpentining conversation.
âThe exam is done. You're spiralling," he tells you, and the second after he is getting up from his chair and stepping into your pacing path. A hand reaches for your wrist and makes you stop in front of him. âBreathe for me?â
âIâm not breathing, I canât breathe, I have three more finals this week and I feel like my skull is gonna fracture from the pressure,â you whine, but are already leaning into his touch, seeking the warmth of him through your most stressful moments. He lets out a sympathetic sigh, fingers curling firmer around your wrist and pulls you fully to him before he presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head.
âThereâs nothing you can do about it now.â And heâs not wrong. You open your mouth, close it, then sigh. Because there is nothing you can do about it now, and thatâs somehow better, but also considerably worse. James tips your chin up with two fingers, ocean blue eyes meeting yours from behind his glasses.
âYou have barely slept or eaten properly for the past week. I donât like it. The way you chastise yourself whenever something goes wrong.â His thumb traces your jaw, and some of the tight coil in your chest loosens very much against your will. âTake a seat.âÂ
âJames, I donât need toâ"
âIâm not asking,â he says gently, which makes it incredibly more effective than if he had said it any other way, then nods towards the leather couch. âSit. Youâve been white-knuckling it for days, give yourself ten minutes.â
You consider it. Not because you want to sit down, not because the exam is finally slipping away from your mind, but because James has shifted into that version of him he only ever lets out when heâs near you, with you, the one that breaks down all your defenses and leaves you bare, although not unsafe. You always feel safe with him.
Slowly, you agree and take a seat on the couch, back slumping against the cushions. Your body recognizes it as home almost immediately, letting the familiarity seep into your bones and making you relax.
James crouches down in front of you and rubs one hand over your right knee.
"Still thinking about it?" he asks.
"...A little."
You sink deeper into the worn leather of the couch, the tension in your shoulders only kind of melting under the weight of his gaze. James remains crouched between your knees for a long moment, large hands taking residence on your thighs, now, thumbs stroking soothing circles through the fabric of your jeans.
âYou know Iâve always got you, right? Prettiest girl Iâve ever met. Smartest, too,â he murmurs, voice wrapped in velvet. That does it quickly, for you, and you know he knows it. He showers you in praise every time, because every time your body opens to him like a flower blooming in the sunlight.
Before you can overthink it, you simply nod. Thereâs a brief moment where youâre sure he whispers something like âlet me take care of youâ, and you do, you let him, the permission being the way your legs gently pry open right in front of him. A shaky exhale, head falling back against the couch. All the agreement he needs.
His long fingers travel upward and make easy work of the button of your pants before peeling them down your legs slowly. James pulls your boots off, then the pants along with them, and he leans forward, mouth pressing a kiss to your left knee. Upward, to the skin of your thigh, a bit to the side, to the inside of your leg. Three days' worth of stubble prickles against you as he moves, and you make a noise, something he sees quickly as desperation, and you know the complaint is futile. When has Professor Barnes ever given you anything quicker than the exact pace he wanted to?
âRelax,â he says against your thigh, then presses his lips to the skin again, an open-mouthed kiss before he bites down so gently you are barely even able to call it a bite. âDidnât I just say Iâve got you?â
Large hands slide from your thighs to wrap firmly around the backs of your legs, fingers digging in with just enough pressure to tug you forward on the couch, sliding your ass closer to the edge so youâre perfectly positioned for him. Thatâs when you open your eyes again, just in time to watch him hook his fingers into the waistband of your panties and peel them down slowly, dragging the fabric along your thighs and off your ankles. And he does it all with his eyes on yours, two blue pits making you feel dizzy, but you still donât look away. You couldnât if you tried.
Cool air hits your now exposed pussy, making you shiver. James lets out a quiet hum of approval at the sight of you, already glistening with arousal.
âSheâs always so beautiful,â a reverent whisper before his large hands wrap around your legs again and lift effortlessly to drape them over his broad shoulders, heels of your feet resting against his back. The new angle tilts your hips up towards his mouth, spreading you open for him completely, and before you can even catch your breath, or take a moment to push down the flush on your skin growing from the vulnerable way you are exposed to him, he leans in and drags his tongue through your folds in a filthy stripe from your entrance to your clit.
A breathy moan tears from your throat, echoing in the quiet office like a confession, and it unravels the last threads of your anxiety as pleasure rises in its place. Then James does it again, a little slower, savoring the taste of you, messy and unhurried, spit mixing with your arousal until your folds are slick and shining. On his knees in front of you, this brilliant man, esteemed professor, becomes nothing more than a servant doing worship at the altar of his Goddess. His broad shoulders carry your legs like an honor he would gladly take forever, and his eyes flutter shut as he presses closer.
Heâs incredible at this; youâve known it from the first time he fell to his knees, right here, in this office, always reading every twitch, every gasp, mouth moving with exquisite skill. Slow and indulgent at first, mostly for himself, drowning in the taste of your slick, before giving way to teasing flicks of the tip of his tongue around your swollen clit only to dip lower again, lapping messily at your entrance where your arousal flows for him.
Wetness coats his silver-streaked beard, glistening on his chin as he buries his face deeper between your thighs. The obscene sounds of his mouth feasting on your fill the room, wet slurping and sucking noises, a slick glide of his tongue, an occasional hungry groan into your cunt that sends sparks flying up your spine, all of it the actions of a man who could be on his knees for hours.
Your hands fly to his hair, gripping the dark strands as your thighs tremble around his head. âJamesâŠâ
No words come out of his mouth then, none you can understand, anyway; instead, the response comes in the way he sucks your clit between his lips, wet suction making your hips jerk, before he releases it with a lewd pop. One hand claws at your thigh, keeping your legs right in their place, while two thick fingers slide into your welcoming heat, curling against the spongy spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids. James pumps them slowly, in time with the dance of his tongue over your clit.
Exam long forgotten, the world narrows to nothing but him, the way his blue eyes will sometimes flick up to watch you through fogged glasses, dark with lust and adoration. Only when he needs to take a moment to breathe, a quick one, enough to allow him to keep going for as long as you need him to, does he speak again.
âGoddess,â he whispers teasingly, slowing his fingers as if to get your attention. Your head tilts forward and you watch him through hooded eyes. âWill you cum for your most loyal subject?â
You huff in soft frustration, the sound breaking into another shaky moan as your body refuses to cooperate with your irritation. Because the edge is so close, molten in your belly, and here he is, being a wicked scholar and working you through comedic words.
âJames, donât⊠fuck, Iâm so close, donât play with me right nowâŠâ you manage, trying to reprimand him. But even as you say it, your cunt betrays you completely, clenching hard around his fingers, fluttering and squeezing with need and pulling them deeper as slick coats his hand.
Your favorite Professor gleams with amusement, lips curled into a devastating half-smirk, swollen and shiny. âYou like it when Iâm funny. Youâve told me before.â
You want to protest, but he curls his fingers again, strokes the perfect spot and dips his head again, sucking your swollen bud with perfect pressure, flicking the tip of his tongue rapidly in a rhythm that makes your vision spark white. For a second, he slips his fingers out and instead fucks you with his tongue, thrusting it inside you, before dragging it back up to torture your clit again while his fingers move back to their rightful place. His free hand grips your thigh harder, holding you open for him as you start to grind against his face, chasing the pleasure.
The combination is merciless. Frustration melts instantly into overwhelming pleasure, and another broken moan rips from your throat as your thighs tighten around his shoulders, heels digging into his back. Every stroke, every suck makes the coil in your belly tighten, pulling you deeper into a sea of sensation where exams and fears cannot reach. His beard scrapes deliciously against your sensitive skin with every movement of his head, and arousal drips down his chin onto the leather couch, but he only presses closer, as if he would gladly drown in you.
And just like that, your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, sudden and blinding. You cry out sharply, back arching off the couch as pleasure tears through every nerve in your body. James moans against your pussy like a man receiving divine absolution, your walls pulsing and fluttering around his fingers, gushing against his mouth. And he drinks down every drop of you until your trembling begins to quiet down, slowly easing his movements before pressing a couple of tender, open-mouthed kisses to your oversensitive pussy and to your inner thighs.
Still, he keeps your legs draped over his shoulders a moment longer, gazing at you through glasses that look slightly uneven with the most loving expression you have ever seen on a man. Breathless and floating, you manage to meet his eyes, and you smile at the sight of your brilliant professor on his knees, face glistening with the evidence of your pleasure.
âYouâre trouble,â you whisper, though the words carry no real heat in them. James is busy kissing down your legs, lips reaching softly to every inch of skin, but he smiles in the midst of it.
âTrouble?â he repeats, feigning offense. âMy goddess calls me trouble after Iâve knelt here and offered proper tribute? How cruel.â
You let out a breathless laugh that turns into a soft gasp when he nips gently at the crease of your thigh.
âYou do know I love you, right? Even when youâre being silly while going down on me.â
That makes him smile wider. âI reckon you love me especially when Iâm being silly while going down on you.â
Pairing : Bucky x Reader (assume they're in their 40s)
Summary : a car ride, an old song, and memories worth lifetime.
Word Count : 360 (I know, I'm sorry)
The wind hits your face like waves hitting the bow of a ship, splattering your hair into your face and making you giggle every time bucky tries to drag a stray strand of your hair behind your ear and loses control on the steering wheel slightly.
âYour driving skills are rusty, old manâ you tease
He looks offended âYou seemed to like my driving skills just fine last nightâ
He wiggles his brows at you and you nudge him with your elbow.
He chuckles.
The sound making you feel warm and fuzzy in the chest even after all these years.
The radio chooses the same moment to play your song.
âI never understood a single word he saidâ
The voice sharpens as you turn the dial up a notch, letting yourself be lost to the past.
Bucky turns to look at you. His eyes telling you that he is right there with you.
1970
A long drive and two teenagers in love. When the radio decided to play this song and you shared your first kiss at the tune of it.
âYou remember this song?â You ask bucky, despite knowing he does remember it.
âI doâ he nods eyes on the road but the picture behind his irises is of you.
You with your wild hair and wilder laugh. And how you sneaked your father's car keys just so he could take you out on a drive.
He remembers being flustered. Remembers wondering if you'd be impressed or repulsed. He remembers the entire length of your then very short relationship pass in front of him, worried if he'll make it last.
Turns out the relationship lasted just fine.
You had wrinkles around your eyes now. His hair had streaks of gray. Your children had moved out to go to college and you were back to how you were when you just got married.
Just you two.
And in a fleeting moment it hits bucky. That he got to see the woman with wild hair and wilder laugh turn into this majestic person he got to live his life with.
i get so emotional every time i think about fanfic culture. it's just so beautiful that people are writing and anonymously posting these thousand-word stories about characters we all love and not even getting any money or public fame from it. it's literally just for the love of the game.
shout out to everyone who participates in fanfic culture, be it reading or writing fanfics. you are contributing to such a lovely thing <3
Warnings: Bucky & Reader have a child. Canonical accuracy that the Winter Soldier assassinated JFK.
WC: 303
AN: for the @societynsoelsscribbles June Scribbles, day 2, using the line: âI canât promise I wonât do that.â Divider courtesy of @saradika-graphics
Your daughter is twelve the first time history class becomes a problem.
Youâre in the kitchen preparing dinner with Bucky. Alpine is winding around his ankles as the record player hums softly in the background. The front door opens and your daughter calls out for the two of you. There is something in the tone of her voice that makes both of you look up immediately.
âEverything okay, doll?â
âMaybe?â
You and Bucky exchange a look. She drops her backpack by the table. âSo, we started learning about the sixties today,â she replies as she pulls out her history textbook and flips through chunks of pages.
You see the page before Bucky does. Thereâs a grainy black-and-white photo of the Winter Soldier. Underneath, reads:
JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES â Soviet operative linked to numerous assassinations during the Cold War, including the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.
Your daughterâs gaze bounces between the two of you. Bucky closes his eyes and you swear that you see his soul exit his body.
âDad, you assassinated JFK?!â
âWell,â Bucky says slowly, âthatâs one hell of a way to start dinner.â After a beat, he continues, âHoney, remember that my mind was controlled by Hydra at the time.â
Your daughter, your sweet, Barnes child, walks to him, wrapping her arms around his waist.
âShe really walked us through the chapter like normal, Dad,â she mutters into his shirt. âIâm just sitting there trying to survive third period and BAM! Thereâs your government-issued murder glamour shot.â
You let out a snort.
âEveryone started asking me things about daddy, Uncle Steve, Sam. You may get a call from the school.â
Bucky lets out an exasperated sigh.
âCan I cite daddy as a primary source in my essay?â
