"why do men watch porn instead of just having sex with their girlfriends?" is already silly for numerous reasons, but seeing it being used as like. a feminist talking point is so crazy to me because like of the implication that being in a relationship means being available for sex all the time, which you know. doesn't feel great for women i think.
[looking at people younger than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at people older than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at myself] its over
$ log - bucky barnes has been lurking in tower doorways for three weeks trying to figure out how to talk to people. you come back from a mission hurt. he stops thinking about it and helps!
$ warn --sfw --gn!reader --avengers!reader --soft!bucky --awkward!bucky --steve-and-sam-are-proud-parents
$ wc -w 2.6k
$ cd masterlist
$ echo “account's js going to be quiet during the day bc im busy interning, but posts will be scheduled still, maybs” > authors-note.txt
The debrief runs long enough that by the time you get back to your floor, the common room has thinned out. You can hear the TV distantly — someone left it on, low volume, a laugh track going off for no one. You've got your kit on the bathroom counter and your shirt off. You're already regretting not asking someone to do this before they all dispersed.
The problem with cuts on your back is geometry. Simple, stupid geometry.
You manage the lower ones fine. The upper left (the one that actually needs a stitch or two) is the problem. You can feel it pulling when you reach, and you keep having to re-angle the mirror. So annoying — the gauze keeps slipping since you're contorting your arm in a direction it wasn't designed to go.
This is fine, you think, pressing the cloth to it at the wrong angle. This is completely fine and very normal and you are a trained operative.
The gauze slips again.
You don't hear him in the doorway. You just — become aware of him. It’s similar to the way you become aware of a change in air pressure, and when you clock the reflection in the mirror your first instinct is to go for the knife on the counter before your brain catches up:
Barnes. It's Barnes.
He's leaning in the frame, arms crossed, watching you with the particular expression he seems to wear as a default. Not unfriendly, exactly, just very still. It’s like he's turned most of himself down to a frequency you can't quite tune into.
You'd noticed him around the tower; it’s hard not to. He had this way of hovering near the edges of rooms — near enough to be present, far enough to have an exit, watching conversations like he was studying for a test on how to be a person again.
You'd clocked him lingering near the kitchen while Sam told a story, near the TV while Nat and Clint argued about something. Or near the window during debrief like a curious, brooding version of Thor.
You'd wanted to say something to him about a dozen times and each time you'd talked yourself out of it because you genuinely could not figure out what the opening line was. Hey, you seem lonely felt presumptuous. Good job not being a sleeper agent felt worse.
So you'd just decided not to..
And apparently he'd been doing the same math, which had resulted in him standing in your bathroom doorway at eleven at night watching you fail at first aid.
"Hey," you say, because something has to be said.
He nods, and you turn back to the mirror. "I've got it."
You don't have it. The gauze slips again, proof positive, and you watch his reflection push off the doorframe and cross the room and then his hand — the left one, the metal one, cool even through the cloth — covers yours and just takes it. Bucky wasn’t rough with it nor hesitant, just with the quiet certainty of someone who has decided a thing and is doing it.
You go still. "What are you doing?"
"Helping."
He says it like it's the most obvious thing — like you'd asked him what two plus two was. He's already repositioning, tilting the light, assessing. The efficiency of it catches you off guard, the way he moves through like a checklist: clean, irrigate, and assess depth. You can feel him deciding about the stitch before he says anything.
"This needs two," he says.
"I know."
"You were going to do it yourself."
"I was going to, yes."
He makes a sound, something not quite a laugh — something shorter, quieter. But it's there.
Bucky works without narrating it, which you appreciate. Some people talk through medical stuff to be reassuring and it always has the opposite effect. He just does it, and so the stitches are neat. Tighter than you'd have managed at this angle, if you'd managed at all.
You're watching his reflection without meaning to. He's focused — entirely, completely focused, the same way you'd clocked him watching the sparring sessions from the mezzanine last week. It’s like the thing in front of him is the only thing that exists.
"You had good angles tonight," he says.
You blink. "Sorry?"
"On the entry. The building." He ties off the stitch, reaches for the gauze. "Most people come in high. You came in low and right, cut off the exit before they registered you were there."
You process that for a second.
"You were watching."
"Everyone was watching. You were the interesting part."
It's delivered completely flatly; just a fact he's reporting.
"...thanks," you say.
He tapes the gauze down, smooth and precise, with no wasted movement. "The one by the stairwell. Your second engagement. You knew he was going to draw left."
"He was guarding his right side the whole time. Led with it."
Barnes nods like you've confirmed something. "He'd been hit there before, old injury. You read it in about four seconds."
"Three," you say, and then feel slightly stupid.
The corner of his mouth moves. Not a smile, exactly, but the shape of one. "Three," he allows.
He steps back, checking his work with the same assessing look. You pull your shirt back on and turn around, leaning against the counter. He's already moving to wash his hands, unhurried.
"I've been trying to figure out how to talk to you for like three weeks," you say.
He looks at you in the mirror.
"You're very — " you gesture vaguely, " — a lot to approach. You've got a whole thing going on. Very brooding-corner-of-the-room energy."
He's quiet for a moment, drying his hands. "I didn't know what to say."
"Yeah, me neither."
"So I didn't say anything."
"Same."
He turns off the tap and sets the towel down. Bucky looks at you with that low, even look, and you get the sense he's filing something away — cataloguing this. Perhaps in the way he catalogued your entry angle and the guard's weak side and the two stitches. Just simply noting it.
"Your form on the last guy," he says. "The big one by the door."
"What about it?"
"It was reckless."
You stare at him.
"You had three cleaner options."
"I had him."
"You had him that time." He crosses his arms. "Different footing, you're on the floor."
You open your mouth, close it. "Are you critiquing me right now? You just stitched me up and now you're critiquing me?"
"The two things aren't unrelated."
You look at him, and he just stares back. Somewhere down the hall the laugh track goes off again, tinny and distant.
"Okay," you say. "Fine. What were the three cleaner options?"
And he tells you. Quiet and precise, standing in your bathroom at eleven-fifteen at night, talking about leverage and sightlines and weight distribution like he's narrating a documentary only he can see.
You find yourself arguing back. Though, not defensively, just because you have a different read. He seems like the kind of person who wants you to push back, actually, who comes alive slightly when you do, the stillness shifting into something more alert.
The laugh track goes off again and you both ignore it.
You're still leaning against the counter. He hasn't moved toward the door yet. There's something in the quality of the silence that doesn't feel like an ending, so you don't treat it like one.
"Can I ask you something?"
He looks at you.
"The — " you gesture vaguely in the direction of the rest of the tower, " — social stuff. Is it hard? Like, actually hard, or is that a stupid question?"
A pause. He seems to be deciding something.
"It's loud," he says finally.
"The tower?"
"Rooms. When everyone's — " he stops, and tries again. "When people already know how to talk to each other. There's a frequency. I can't find it."
He says it the way he said three — like a correction. It’s as if he's been carrying the precise language for it and hasn't had anywhere to put it. "I stand there and I know what a normal response would look like but by the time I've worked out how to enter it the moment's already gone."
Letting the conversation sit, you stay silent.
"Steve tries," he adds. "He's — he tries very hard. So does Sam. It's worse when people try."
"Because then you know they're watching to see if it works."
He looks at you; something shifts slightly. "Yeah."
"I noticed you," you say. "Around, for weeks. I kept almost saying something."
"Why didn't you?"
"Couldn't really figure out the opening line. You've got a very — " you make the same vague gesture from before, " — don't approach energy."
"Hm." He considers this without apparent offense. "What changed?"
"You walked into my bathroom and took the gauze out of my hand."
The shape-of-a-smile thing happens again. Brief and almost involuntary.
"I didn't think about it," he says. "I just — did it."
"Yeah." You pause. "That's usually how it works, actually. The thinking is the problem."
He's quiet for a moment. Then, like he's noting something: "You patch yourself up alone."
"I had it."
"You didn't."
"I almost had it."
He tips his head slightly, but not agreeing. "You came back from a mission with a laceration that needed two stitches and you didn't ask anyone."
"I didn't want to bother anyone."
He looks at you with an expression that is very flat and very pointed and somehow manages to make you feel slightly called out without him saying a single word.
"That's different," you say.
"Is it?"
"I'm not — " you stop and start again. "That's just not wanting to be annoying. That's not the same thing as not being able to read a room."
"You were alone in a bathroom at midnight with a needle."
"Barnes."
"I'm just noting it."
"You're critiquing me again."
"The two things," he says, deadpan, "aren't unrelated."
You stare at him, and he does the same. The laugh track plays. You both continue to ignore it.
"Okay," you say. "Fine. We're both bad at it."
He considers this for a moment, like he's checking it for accuracy. Then, quietly: "Yeah."
It's not a big admission, as he doesn't really make it one. But you get the sense it's the kind of thing he doesn't say out loud very often — the small ordinary version of the truth, without the armor around it.
He's still here, you think, and that's the thing. He walked in and he stayed and he answered. He's still here, which for Bucky at this particular point in his grand life is probably the whole sentence.
"We should spar sometime," you say. "You could show me. The three options."
He goes quiet.
Though not the closed-off quiet from before — something different. Smaller, like a door opening somewhere very far inside, in a room that hadn't been unlocked in a long time. Something that, if you knew him better, if you'd known him before — back when he had a whole laugh and an easy grin and twenty-five cents in his pocket for the Coney Island ferris wheel — you might have recognised it as the very beginning of giddy.
He doesn't let it reach his face, but it's there.
"Yeah," he says. A pause. "That sounds good."
It's four words, but it shouldn't land the way it does.
He leaves, and you're standing in your bathroom, alone again. The laugh track plays one more time.
Huh, you think. Okay then.
He finds Steve and Sam in the kitchen at half past midnight. They're doing nothing in particular.
Sam has a bowl of cereal he's clearly eating out of boredom, Steve has a book open that he hasn't looked at in a while. They both clock Bucky in the doorway and do the thing they always do, which is very carefully not make it a big deal that he's there.
"Hey," Sam says. "You eat yet?"
Bucky doesn't answer that. He comes into the kitchen and stops a few feet from the counter — hands at his sides, shoulders back, the posture of a man delivering a report to people with the appropriate clearance level — and says: "I talked to Y/N tonight."
Steve closes his book.
"Yeah?" Sam says, neutral, cereal spoon frozen.
"They came back from the mission with a laceration on their upper back. I assisted with the stitching." A pause. "Then we talked about the mission. Their tactical instincts are good. They read injury patterns. They noticed I'd been — " a very brief stop, " — around. They said I had brooding-corner-of-the-room energy."
Sam's mouth twitches. "They’re not wrong."
"We talked about the social stuff. I told them about the frequency thing." He says it plainly, no preamble, the way he'd report a weather condition. "They didn't make it weird."
Steve's expression does something complicated and tender that he is trying very hard to keep off his face and completely failing at.
"They patch themself up alone," Bucky continues, with the faint air of someone filing a complaint. "They came back with a two-stitch laceration and didn't ask anyone. Y/N said they didn't want to bother people."
"That does sound like them," Sam says carefully.
"It's the same thing. What I do. They just don't see it that way." He pauses. "I told them the two things weren't unrelated."
Sam sets his spoon down very slowly.
"We're sparring next week," Bucky says. "So I can demonstrate the three alternative approaches they should have taken in the final engagement. Their form on the last target was reckless."
Silence.
Steve is gripping his book, but his jaw is doing something. His eyes are doing something considerably worse. He has the look of a man watching a sunrise he'd been told might never come and trying very hard not to ruin it by crying about it in a kitchen at midnight.
"That's — " his voice comes out slightly higher than intended. He clears his throat. "That's really good, Buck."
"They’re good," Bucky says, with a faint defensive edge that no one asked for. "Technically. Their entry angles are efficient. And they process fast. They even asked me a question and then actually waited for the answer."
"Mmhm," Sam says, nodding. Neutral and completely fine. Absolutely not affected by any of this.
"I'm just saying. As context."
"Useful context," Sam says. "Very useful."
Bucky looks between them, and they look back. Sam with a careful, nonchalant stillance. Steve with the barely-contained energy of a man who is sitting, technically, but only just.
"What?" Bucky says.
"Nothing," Steve says immediately.
"Nothing at all," Sam agrees.
A beat.
"I'm going to bed," Bucky announces.
"Good night," Sam says smoothly.
"Night," Steve manages.
Bucky leaves; his footsteps go down the hall, then a door closes.
Steve and Sam look at each other.
"He made a friend," Steve says, at a volume that is too loud for midnight.
"Steve — "
"Sam. He made a friend."
"I know, I was there — "
"They waited for the answer — "
"Steve — "
"They just waited — "
"I will pour this milk directly onto you," Sam says. "Look at me. I mean it."
Steve presses both hands over his face. His shoulders are shaking. It takes Sam a second to clock that it isn't distress — it's laughter, the silent kind. The one that gets away from you when you've been holding something careful for a very long time and something small and good finally tips it over.
Sam looks at the ceiling, picking up his spoon and takes a bite of cereal.
"...they sound good," he says, after a moment. Quietly. "The frequency thing. That they just — let it sit."
"They’re going to be so good for him," Steve says, into his hands.
"We don't know that yet."
"Sam."
Sam takes another bite and looks at the ceiling again. "...yeah," he says. "Probably."
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus
Summary - You and Bucky finally cross that line from friends to something more.
Warnings - Smut, kissing, dry humping, premature ejaculation? 18+ Only! My warnings are not extensive so enter at your own risk.
Word Count - <800
"Oh god baby, you're gonna have to stop." Bucky rasped as you ground yourself down on his lap.
You were still fully clothed, both of you caught up in the moment the second your lips pressed against each other's for the first time.
The pining had gone on too long, building up into something uncontrollably feral and tonight both of your resolves had snapped.
The problem with that kind of gut wrenching tension that burns in your very core like an active volcano, is that within minutes of your covered cunt making contact with his rock hard cock hidden beneath his dark jeans, he was ready to bust.
He inwardly cursed himself for having the restraint of a prepubescent teenager before finding the courage to ask you to stop, to slow down so that he didn't disappoint you after all this time. He should have known that you would never see it that way, you weren't like that.
"You okay?" You asked, with worry laced between your brows as you stopped your movements and pulled back to search his face.
"Yeah I'm fine. This is great, really." He replied with a hitch in his throat, tightening his palms against your hips in fear you would just jump off him and leave, "I just...fuck...you feel too good sweetheart...I don't think I'll last if you keep moving on me like that."
"That's so hot." You breathed as you stared back at him, watching his features change from worry to amusement in mere seconds.
"Hot? Sweetheart I'm about to bust in my jeans without getting my cock anywhere near you and you think that's hot?" He said in amusement, lip twitching at the corner as you nodded with a wide grin.
"Do I think it's hot..." You breathed, dipping back down to suck on his ear love, hearing him groan low in his chest, hips bucking up into you involuntarily, "That you're so attracted to me, that just me sitting on you can make you cum."
He inhaled a deep breath, voice catching in his throat as you began grinding your core against him once more, placing kisses along his stubbled jaw and neck before nibbling at the skin.
"Fuck baby." Bucky groaned, feeling his cock twitch under you, the pressure of your body on his pushing him closer and closer to the edge.
"It's okay Bucky," You moaned into his neck, feeling arousal pool in your panties from his desperation and the feel of his body against yours, "Let me make you feel good."
"God, you are baby. Feels so good." He groaned, tilting his hips up to meet your pelvis once more and making you let out an involuntary pleasurable gasp at the contact.
You pulled back, your own eyes flicking between his deep blue orbs as his mouth hung agape, small groans slipping from between the flesh as you moved your body over his, pushing him closer and closer to the edge.
"You're mine now, you know that right." Bucky whispered up at you, adoration filling his gaze.
"All yours bucky, I've always been yours." You whimpered.
He slipped one hand up your spine until it rested between your shoulders and he pushed your body into his, pressing his lips against yours with a satisfied hum.
His groans got louder in your mouth, hips getting more desperate as your tongue melded to his and you let out your own mewls and whimpers, clutching desperately at his shoulders to make sure this was real, this was finally happening.
Bucky gasped, hands twitching were they splayed and head pulling back to stare in your eyes as his cock juddered, spilling warm ropes of cum into his underwear.
You worked him through it, pressing soft kisses to his cheek, jaw and lips while he came down from his high, before you finally stilled and he pulled you against him, cuddling you against his chest.
You sighed against him with a soft smile, burying your face into the crook of his neck, feeling his chest move up and down as his breathing steadied.
"Fuck." He murmured, pressing his lips to your forehead, "That was..."
"Long overdue." You whispered happily.
"I owe you one now sweetheart." He promised with a smirk, "Fuck I owe you as many orgasms as you can handle."
You giggled against him, feeling his lips curve into a wide smile against your skin before they pursed and pressed a long drawn out kiss there.
His palms rubbed the length of your back, body's fitting together like they always should have.
"We've got all the time in the world." He whispered, pressing another kiss to your scalp, "Always gonna be yours sweetheart, always."
idk why people are still trying to do "hear me out"s on tumblr
you could talk about wanting to fuck the space needle on here and people would still call you a poser for insisting on fucking "conventionally attractive architecture" as if that's a coherent, easily-recognizable category
Tags/Warning: biker Bucky, curvy reader, insecure reader, beefy Bucky because we all need him, coworker are shitheads, drinking, angst if you squint, smut in part 2 (oral!fem receiving, missionary, hair pulling, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, Buckys got a filthy mouth, fingering, he literally eats you out on the bike alright)
Summary: After a shit night out with coworkers, you catch the eye of a mysterious biker who looks every part of a dirty fantasy.
Note: it’s been forever since I wrote literally anything. I’ve decided to crawl out of my hole and share a little something something as I warm my fingies. I have a mild praise kink so reblog, like it, and comment. Thanks!
Dividers by @uzmacchiato
Perhaps it’s the mystery of the unknown. Being able to see what the body looks like, but not being able to see the face, drives something deep inside your bones to sizzle.
You’ve seen the videos — the girl giving her number to a mysterious biker, posing with them for a picture, kissing the helmet before running away. Each one, you whisper I wanna do that.
If ever given the chance.
But Gods work on mysterious ways…
It’s a buzzing Friday night in New York—bars are packed, taxis flying down the side streets, drunken laughter filling the air, and your feet are throbbing from walking the uneven side walks.
Your coworkers wanted to celebrate someone’s promotion, you don’t even know who, but had agreed anyways because everyone deserves a drink.
The night started fine, honestly, but then took a left turn into fuckthisvile when all your coworkers started making odd jokes.
About you.
The first few were harmless, even you giggled at. They gradually grew harsher. Meaner. Personal.
“It must be hard shopping for your style in your size.” Dani had drunkenly mocked.
“Summers have got to be hard on you.” Tiffany chimed in.
“Oh be nice to her. She just has more to love.” Frank laughed.
You felt your skin crawl and all blood rush to your ears. Your eyes stayed glued to your drink, watching the sweat droplets slide down to your fingers.
You felt mildly insecure already, being a woman with curves, but never thought of yourself as ugly.
Slamming the last of your drink, you didn’t even give them the gratification of seeing your hurt, and grabbed your purse to leave. The liquor burned your throat, momentarily taking the focus from your eyes. You glanced at each of their laughing faces, nodded once and walked away.
The humid night air refreshes your lungs, finally pulling in a deep breath since the jokes started.
Your phone sits waiting in your hand as you go to book an Uber, when loud vrooming sounds fill the street.
Lifting your eyes, you watch as three motorcycles pull up along the curb right outside the bar. The first one is hot red with white strips along the body, and the rider in all black leather but the helmet matches the bike.
The second is blue and red, a single white star on their helmet.
But it’s the middle bike that causes your breath to hitch. All black leather, helmet, and bike. A blood red star on the front.
You can’t help but stare as your breathing becomes deeper, inhaling the fumes from their exhaust. The red bike and the white star are yelling over the middle person, who—even through his helmet—looks over the conversation.
Head tilted slightly, nodding gently to whatever song must be playing in the protective gear, and your heart feels it’s going to drop out your pussy.
You take a step forward and then freeze. He’s huge, big shoulders and arms and hands and you thought you could just waltz right up and do what?
Your brain short circuits before starting back up again as one of the bikes revs loudly. Your glossy eyes focus, and the one you were staring at now has his head turned. Looking directly at you.
Your hands clam up, your throat feels tight, and your eyes widen. His head tilts in question before lifting a finger to motion you over.
You’re frozen, ready to vomit, just as the door behinds you burst open. Your eyes close in prayer when Tiffany and Dani stumble beside you.
“You’re still here? We thought you left!” Dani pokes your arm.
You snatch it out of reach, glaring, “I was getting an uber.”
Frank materializes on the other side of you, “why are you leaving? You know we were just joking! Don’t be so sensitive.” He nudges Tiffany. “Right? We weren’t trying to make fun of you.”
The two girls cackle, stumbling into each other, “yeah!”
You shift your gaze back to the man and suddenly the New York life drowns out.
He’s swinging his leg over the seat, pulling the key out of the ignition, all while keeping his head focused on you. As he approaches, your head slowly tilts back to keep your eyes on where you think his eyes are.
The giggling has stopped, Frank has taken a step back, and big mystery man is leaning down to press the helmet to the side of your face, “Need a ride?”
Your tongue feels like sand paper so all you can do is nod.
He straightens, flips his visor up, and stares piercingly blue eyes into your soul.
Your cheeks heat, your thighs twitch, and you would give your left kidney to see the rest of his face. His voice is like smooth honey, slowly dripping down your spine.
His eyes shift to the three people by you, “You know them?” His left index finger wiggles between them.
You go to answer honestly, then freeze. No, you don’t know these people. They’re just coworkers who are treating you like a street dog. Taking a deep breath, “No. I don’t know them.”
They all start to yell at you, voices stumbling over each other, trying to defend themselves.
Big Man nods once, wraps his arm around your shoulders, “She’s with me.”
You hold onto his leather jacket, willing your heart to calm the fuck down when you realize he’s leading you to his bike. The other two riders are leaning back, staring daggers at the three assholes you walked away from.
Mystery Man climbs on the bike, “I don’t have an extra helmet on me. I wasn’t expecting to pick up a beauty tonight. So here,” and his helmet is sliding up and off his head.
You’ve ascended and are now in heaven. Whatever good you’ve done in your life is paying off right now. Gods have answered your prayers.
He’s hot. Not as in oh he’s hot. No, as in he-could-fuck-you-right-there-on-the-street hot.
Salt and peppered beard, cut jaw and cheekbones, and hair you want to feel tangled in your fingers.
When you don’t take the helmet, a sharp smirk grows on his lips, “You can look at me like that all you want, Sweetheart, but i need you to put this on.”
Your limbs are jelly, hands trembling as you slide the gear over your head. You peer at him through the open visor and can’t stop the giggle crawling out your mouth.
He licks his lower lip, “How’s it fit?”
“A bit big, but feels good.” You wink.
The man groans, “Jesus Christ.”
His hand finds yours as he helps you swing your leg over the bike. You giggle again, “Actually, it’s-“ you give your name.
He turns his head to look back at you, a sparkle in his eye, “Bucky. Now hold on, sweetheart.”
i block ppl all the time so my blocklist ranges from "actual fucking asshole fascist" n "post that mildly annoyed me because im petty" and if i went thru my blocklist rn i probably would have no idea why i blocked each of them but whatever
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
