Match RG Dom to a tool of destruction: ring gag, collar with nipple clamps, tentacle dildo
- 🐈⬛
It's only Monday! Why is everyone attacking me with horny? (I say, as I interact and reply with horny messages and fics, lol)
You've picked quite a set of tools, Anon 😳
ring gag - Ari
Not only as a tool to quiet his bratty submissive, but for the whole creatively evil side of him that loves to wreck you with helplessness with a side of humiliation. He'd put the ring gag in your mouth, then bend you over, face-forward to the club members, so everyone can watch you drool and make incoherent sounds as Ari toys with you. Ring gag often is associated with mouth fucking, but Ari rarely is so predictable. Yes, he would put his fingers in your mouth, fuck your mouth with them... then stretch your ass with those wet fingers and listen to your gurgling sounds of pain-pleasure.
collar with nipple clamps - Ransom
Collaring as a mark of bond and ownership fits more other couples, but I treat is here as a means of play. Ransom would put a pretty collar around your neck, with nipple clamps attach to it with thin chains. Which he of course traps your poor nipples in, keeping your upper half naked and on display. He might let you stay partially covered below, with a frilly apron. Then makes you play a waitress/maid for him, doing all the tasks with those clamps on, and touching you every given opportunity. Absolutely drives you mad and wet.
tentacle dildo - Andy
Now listen, the most fitting would be Lloyd, or Curtis and Bucky. HOWEVER, I'm just frothing at the mouth at the idea of our classy Dom doing something so unexpected that absolutely wrecks Birdie's mind and body. He's all composed, elegant if ruthless type of Dom, you're an eager but shy sweetheart who is adventurous to a limit. But he saw the monster romance book one of your subby friends gave you, as well noticed how flustered you got as you read some of the parts. He gets a pretty glass dildo, shaped like a tentacle with all the ridges and suction cups details. And he's going to enjoy every second of using it on you - from the way your eyes go so sooo big when you see it for the first time, to the way you squirm when he rubs it between your legs, the glazed-over glint in your eyes when he fucks you with it.
I know that you just gave us an incredible update on your Viking Steven series, but I had a thought 😅
It don’t know how it fits into their timeline, but it got me thinking about the first time that she seeks him out 😌
Somewhere down the line, when they’re comfortable together but she, especially, is uncertain about any brewing feelings 🥺
Maybe there’s a horny shift; she’s ovulating or something and just wants her husband now, so a polite “May I have a moment alone with my husband, please?” takes a real nice turn? 🤭 Maybe he fucks her over his strategy table?
Maybe not 🤷🏼♀️ Nevertheless, I am thinking very hard about all the possibilities 🥺💀😌❤️
You gifted me this little idea just over a year ago, and I scribbled it away into their storyline, but there were a few more pieces of the story I knew I needed to tell until we got to the potential for this...
The Inevitable, Ruinous Ache [For the King & Conqueror]
Characters/Pairings: Viking King Steven x curvy Female Queen!Reader
Word Count: 4.8k
Content/Warnings: DARK established relationship - kidnapped wife; explicit smut: vaginal fingering, clit play, unprotected vaginal and anal intercourse, insemination; breeding; use of pet name (little wife)
Previous Part | Series
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Things are different in the weeks that follow the visit from your guests from the south. You sense it in the way Steven moves through the halls—with more watchfulness than before, less the heedless animal force that once hurled him at everything in reach and more the measured, circumspect tread of a man who has recognized, possibly for the first time, the possibility of losing some part of his world.
He wakes you each morning with the same relentless heat, the same demanding hands and cock, but sometimes in the small moments after—when his breath has slowed and your bodies are still tied together by what he’s poured into you—he watches you as though trying to decipher a language only you two share, and that he’s afraid to find his own words missing.
He fills his days with a new kind of purpose, stalking the battlements at dusk, making careful inventory of the armory, drilling the younger men himself, relentless and all-consuming. He is building something, you think; you are watching him fortify what he loves, even if he cannot say so aloud.
It changes things between the two of you, this awareness—a tension not of violence or even sex, but of something almost—fragile. It surfaces in the way he sometimes laces his fingers with yours, as if idly, but never breaks the hold first. Or in the way his hand will pause at your back, hovering as though it wants to support you, but cannot quite allow itself the indulgence of tenderness outright. You feel it when he watches you from across the hall during mealtimes, and in how he discusses matters of the court with you, less dismissive, more—what is it, respect?—than before.
You’d imagined, once, that the longer you stayed here, the more invisible you might become. That a queen, even one captured and bartered for as you were, would eventually be more statue than person, a vessel for tradition and dynasty, not for selfhood. But the opposite has happened. Your days are full—helping Ursa plan the planting festivals, overseeing repairs to the winter-damaged barns, learning which of Helga’s cryptic warnings to heed and which to ignore. Even the village children know you now, trailing after your skirt-hems, bringing you bits of amber and sea glass as trophies.
You do not yet know all your position will be nor what your marriage is, but it has grown in ways you did not expect.
Today the itch comes before the noon hour but you try to ignore it—try to keep occupied, try to let your hands and mind be so full of tasks that they might crowd out the throb in your thighs, the heat curling low in your belly. You visit the kitchens, where the steam and spitting fat makes you lightheaded; you walk the length of the halls. Nothing works. The ache is stubborn, eager, and it turns every thought toward Steven and the way he sometimes bends you over the windowsill, or pins you against the wall, or drags you across the floor, or—most especially, most humiliatingly—the way he simply looks at you from across the room and makes you want to drop to your knees and beg for him.
It’s the wanting that undoes you.
So you go to him.
You find Steven in the council room, hunched over a parchment at the long pine table. Two of his advisors—Lorens with his pinched mouth and restless fingers, and Samuel with his strong jaw—lean in, voices serious as the men confer. The fire is banked low, providing warmth in the chill of late winter, some light still making itself available at the end of the afternoon.
Steven glances up before the others notice you, as if summoned by the heat of your gaze. His eyes meet yours and for a fraction of a second the animal in him flares out from behind his eyes—hungry, sharp, but now tempered by something that almost looks like pride. Then his face flickers back to impassiveness, the steel mask that serves him so well.
You linger at the edge of the room, weighing whether to approach, and Steven’s head tips a fraction—an order: come here.
You cross the stone flags, your steps soft in the hush, and though both advisors shoot glances your way, neither wavers in their discourse with their king. Steven’s attention swings fully your way. “What is your need?” he asks, tone flat, but his eyes flick down your body in a way that indicates he has a suspicion.
You feel the heat rise up your neck, but you meet his gaze with steadiness. “May I have a moment alone with my husband?” you ask, glancing at the two counselors, but then back to Steven, who holds the power to determine.
Steven doesn’t bother with the pretense of courtesy or debate. “You are both dismissed,” he says, without looking away from you.
Lorens rises first, shuffling his papers together, darting you a glance that slides away as soon as it lands. Samuel lingers a moment, still watching Steven, then bows and retreats. The door closes and the hush in the room is absolute.
He shifts his weight back, squares his shoulders and leans into the chair in a way that makes you aware, acutely, of the span of his thighs and the space he commands even at rest.
You cross the distance with measured dignity, careful not to let your pace betray the heat burning in the marrow of your bones, and stand just close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, like a sun behind a cloud. He is silent, letting you name your need, or your shame, whichever will come first.
Steven watches you for a long moment, eyes keenly narrowed, the muscle in his jaw tight. He says nothing.
For a moment, you don’t know where to begin. Everything seems both urgent and trivial in the presence of his attention, so you choose the truth. “There are things I want,” you say, boldness tripping up over the lump in your throat.
He lets the silence hang there, sharp as a blade, before allowing himself the faintest lift of a brow. “Then take them.” He speaks with the same ruthless clarity he brings to every command, but there’s no mockery in it. He means it, means for you to have whatever you dare to name.
You do. The table is long, but you are bold; you slide one knee onto the bench beside Steven, the movement deliberate, and then sit on his lap, straddling him there in the firelit hush.
His hands go immediately to your hips, holding you hard but not to control—just to steady you. You feel the heat of him, not just between your thighs, but burning clean through the linen of his shirt, through the wool of your own bodice. He stares up at you, face hungry.
You stare at him, daring him to make the next move. He doesn’t. His hands rest at your hips, heavy and expectant. The fire at your back, the muscle and heat of him before you—everything about Steven in this instant screams that he is ready to be the instrument of whatever you wish, but will not move first. Not on this.
“Is that an order, my king?” you ask, your voice breathier than you wish it to be.
He tilts his head, considering you with that odd, deep tenderness that you’ve begun to learn is not softness, not in the way you once recognized, but a fiercer kind of loyalty. “If you want it to be,” he says. “If you find that easier.”
You shake your head slowly, hands coming up to splay over the breadth of his chest, flattening your palms against him. Your center rocks forward, brushing over the bulge beneath his breeches, his cock hard and already straining, and your knees nearly give out at the contact.
You move your hips again, slow at first, feeling the thick heat of him grow even harder through the layers of cloth. His hands tighten at your waist, fingers digging in, but he still does not guide, does not take—just lets you rut against him, lets you chase the friction, lets you lose yourself in the animal want while the firelight flickers on his jaw and shadow.
You know what you want. You want to make him want, want to crack this composure, want to see him desperate and raw for you in the way that matches the heat that drove you here, the appetite he’s shown so consistently for you night and day. You grind down, seeking the angle that brings his cock flush against your throbbing center. Steven’s hands tighten with every pass, and his breathing grows shallow, the tips of his ears red with the effort it costs him to hold back.
You slide your hands to his face—beard rough against your palms—and force him to look at you, really look. “I want you to fuck me,” you say, and the baldness of the word makes you pulse with shame and thrill both. “Here. Now.” The echo of that word clings in the air, lurid, and the last filter between you and your want is gone.
Steven’s mouth doesn’t twitch with a smirk, but his eyes—blue, hungry and dark—crinkle at the corners in a way that says everything. His hand moves, slow as a glacier but infinitely more dangerous, sliding beneath the folds of your skirt, up the naked curve of your thigh. The callused pads of his fingers ignite a trail of prickling heat as he climbs, relentless. He finds you already slick, sodden with want, and his thumb strokes the seam of your cunt with a firm, approving press.
“Good,” he murmurs, voice soft but thick with command, “you’re already soaked for me.” There is no pretense, no veneer of gentleness—he takes pride in your need. He sinks the tip of his finger into you, just a knuckle, then deeper, testing your readiness, your greed.
He pulls out, coats his thumb in your arousal, and draws lazy, humiliating circles over your clit. Every nerve is strung to that spot, never letting you retreat from the pleasure he wrings from you. You clutch at his shoulders as the world narrows to the relentless, masterful pressure of his hand, the delicious grind of your hips against his, and the raw, unslakable need that’s driven you across half the castle to tremble on his lap like a supplicant at an altar.
He toys with you like this until you’re panting, biting your own lip to keep from sobbing with how close you are, how much you need more—him, inside you, every inch. Steven keeps you there, strung out on the edge, until you think you’ll break apart from the wanting. He waits, and he watches, the blue eyes locked on yours as if daring you to beg.
You do, in the end. “Please,” you whisper, and the word is so thin and desperate it hardly sounds like your voice, but it gets the reaction you want. He withdraws his hand entirely, leaving you gasping and empty, eager.
His voice is a rough thread as he says, “Up. Bend.”
Your legs shake as you climb off him, but you obey instantly, turning to face the table and propping yourself on your elbows, the rough grain cool beneath your cheek. You hear him behind you, the scrape of his chair across the stone as he moves to stand. The weight of his hand at your back is both warning and anchor as he flips your skirts up and over your waist and exposing your bare flesh to the chill of the council room. The air is cold, but his hands are a brand, searing every inch they touch.
He grinds up behind you, the heavy, swollen head of his cock lining up with your slick, clenching entrance, and you are so hungry that you try to wriggle back to catch him, but his other hand clamps to your hip, holding you in place.
Steven bends low, beard scratch and all, and growls into your ear, “You want to be claimed, little queen? You want to prove who you belong to?” The timber of his voice, the brutal edge of the words, makes your knees go to water. The answer is obvious. The answer is him. Always, always, always him.
You nod, but it isn’t enough for Steven. He wants words, he wants confession, he wants you to submit to this truth with clarity. “Say it,” he snarls, and the hand at your hip shifts to wrap around your throat, not hard, but with promise of force.
“I belong to you,” you say, the words the admission to usher in the next movement. You feel the hot slide of the broad head of Steven’s cock dragging slow and deliberate through your folds—soaking it in the mess he’s just made of you, teasing as though there is any possibility you would not take him instantly and whole. He rubs the slick head up and down, slow, then lingers at your entrance, not yet breaching, just savoring the helpless flex and pulse of your body trying to draw him in, refusing you the fullness you crave.
“You’re so desperate, you will let me fuck you right here on the war table,” he mutters, voice raw. The hand at your throat tightens slightly, making you shiver. “Would you let the entire kingdom see their queen bred by her king?”
You whimper, the shameful thrill of his words tightening every muscle in your core. “Yes. I would.” The fibers in your throat burn with the confession, but Steven’s hand at your nape releases just enough to let you gasp in relief. He’s proud of you—can feel it in the pulse of his cock, straining now, that he has made you need him so absolutely in this place and in this way.
Then there’s the sharp, deliberate press of his body crowding your ass, the hard and heavy heat of his cock settling between your cheeks, threatening the softest, tightest part of you. He bends down, mouth at your ear, and you feel the scrape of his beard and the thrum of his voice as he says, “Hold still.”
You do.
You pulse with anticipation, with nerves, with a need that borders on terror. Steven spits into his hand—loud, crude, and the sound goes straight to your clit—and then he smears the spit over the head of his cock, and over you, and then the push comes, blunt and inexorable, at the forbidden ring of muscle. It is too much, always, but you want it, you want the proof of his hunger, the rawness of being taken where only he has ever claimed.
The stretch is a fire in your bones. You dig your fingers into the edge of the table, desperate to ground yourself as Steven pushes past every last shred of resistance. It is agony and rapture, the full width of him splitting you, and for a moment you go blind, dizzy from the stretch and the heat and the sheer, obscene fullness of him forcing its way inside you.
He doesn’t take you all at once. He works you open, withdrawing and then pressing back in, a little deeper with every rut until you shake beneath him, gasping for air, sobbing around the thickness of him. Sweat beads along your spine, and you are aware only of the way the rough grain of the table digs into your cheek and the way his voice is a rasp of praise washing over you as he speaks.
“You take it,” he says, a kind of awe in the echoing hollowness of the council chamber. “You take me so well, little wife.”
Once fully sheathed, he holds you there, impaled, the hand on your neck now a bracing anchor, his hips flush to your ass. His other hand splays over your lower back, holding you steady and open, thumbs digging in just above the curve of your hips. You feel the tremble in his thighs, the fight he wages to keep from just rutting you through the table; you feel, too, the seething pride in how willing—how eager—you are to take whatever he gives, no matter how intense.
Slowly, Steven withdraws, the drag of his cock raw against the tight, trembling ring. He spits another mouthful into his palm, adds more lube to your now-aching hole, and sets a rhythm that is measured, deliberate. The sound of it—his hips meeting your flesh, the wet suction, the low, rough praise in his voice—is a percussion that underlines every brutal stroke. You crave the violence of it, the way he fucks you open with single-minded focus, and still, still, you want more.
“Steven,” you gasp, not knowing what you’re begging for, only that you want every inch, every ounce of him, even in the places that ache and pulse and maybe cannot take more. He answers with a groan, a hand moving from your hip to your clit, grinding over the little bundle of nerves with all the wicked skill he’s refined over months of your fucking.
The overwhelming friction, the fullness, the throb—is unbearable, and you come, hard, so hard it borders on violence. Your body clamps around him, the spasm nearly paralyzing you as your limbs weaken, every muscle in your core pulsing and throbbing around the invasive, overwhelming width of your king. The edges of your vision blur and the sound you make is animal, wordless, but Steven answers, driving you through the crest of your climax, sinking into you with a force that obliterates all thought.
He fucks you through it, relentless and victorious, hands huge and hard at your hips, jerking you back to claim every last inch until you’re sobbing with how full, how impossibly stuffed you are. Each thrust pushes you flat to the table, and you are only vaguely aware of the smears of spit and slick and sweat pooling at the join of your bodies, the way it soaks through your thighs, leaving you wrecked and open for him.
He’s not finished with you, not by a long shot. Steven’s cock withdraws from your ass with a slow, wrenching drag, leaving you shuddering and empty, all your muscles fluttering and your face hot against the cold grain of the table. You sob, a little, at the loss, and you can feel the slick mess of your own juices and his spit running down your thighs, the burn at your rim pulsing in time with your heartbeat.
But then his hands are gentler—one at your hip, one braced at your shoulder as he lines himself up again, this time pressing the heavy, hot tip of his cock between your thighs, seeking the place you are already swollen and desperate for him. You whimper, still spent and oversensitive from your first climax, but even so, you arch your hips, eager for the fullness only he gives.
He slides in, not slow but not cruel, just driving every inch into your aching, greedy cunt. You keen, desperate, not even caring that your voice is a needy, broken thing in the echoing hush of the council chamber.
Steven’s mouth finds your ear, “Every man at court, every lord, every advisor—every last one knows you are mine, but I want it ringing in their ears forever as I breed you.”
With every stroke, Steven’s cock brushes the most sensitive part inside you, your battered and wet cunt spasming around him, milking him for all he can give. You feel every vein, every ridge, every pulse of his cock as it spears you open, and it’s so much, so good, you come again, harder this time, a rush that’s almost terror but made only of pleasure, pure and shattering.
Your cunt pulses around him, hungry and slick, wringing him, wringing you, until there is nothing left in your head but the need to come again—and the way Steven makes you do it, every time, with just a fuck and a promise and the weight of his whole body pressing you down. You arch your back, desperate to take him deeper, and the hand at your shoulder pins you flat to the table, holding you still as he braces and thrusts, making you quiver and moan, making you mindless for him.
The pace now is punishing, but you crave it. Each time your hips threaten to buck off the wood he keeps you pinned down, rutting into you as if you’re a thing made only for his taking. The itch in your belly blooms to wildfire, sharp and wild, and the overstimulation is edged with a pleasure so beautiful you could scream for it, could cry for the way it rips you open and fills in every last corner of your wanting, and so you do.
He fucks you through the aftershocks, fucking every last spasm of pleasure from your body, fucking you until you’re hoarse and sobbing and barely conscious with the white-hot pleasure and the raw bruise of being so completely, so thoroughly used. You know you will wear the marks of this for days—on your throat, on your hips, at the tight, spent holes still drooling spit and slick and sweat down your thighs.
Steven comes at last with a roar, hips slamming into you so hard the edge of the table cuts the breath from your lungs, and the twitch and pulse of his cock fills you, flooding you in one final, conquering pulse. The heat of him, the quantity of him, is unspeakable—you feel it sear a path to your womb, a brutal, claiming flood that fills you so full the excess is forced out around his cock, further slicking your thighs, sticking your skin to the wood.
The hand at your nape strokes the ridge of your spine, his breath crashing against your back, and you realize he is fighting himself, struggling to corral the violent tenderness now threatening to shatter him from the inside out.
For a long while, neither of you move. The only sound is the ragged thrum of your breaths and the wild, feral stammer of his heart as it tries to slow. Your legs are boneless, splayed wide, and he keeps you pressed to the table, still impaled, as if even a breath’s space could risk losing what he’s just staked his soul on.
Finally, Steven eases back, hands gentle as he scoops you from the table—your limbs limp, trembling, useless in the aftermath—and cradles your whole body against his chest. He gathers your legs up as he moves back and reclaims his earlier seat, settling you in his lap, bundled and shattered against the heat of his skin. He strokes your hair, your back, mauling you close as if afraid you might dissolve into the air if not caged to him. His cock softens inside you, but he cannot let you go, not yet; he just clutches you tighter, your spent body rocked gently soothed, a motion at odds with the violence of minutes before.
When you can finally catch your breath, you turn slightly more into him and you press your cheek to the hollow of his throat. You listen to the tide of his pulse, the desperate hunt of his lungs for air. Somewhere outside, the world carries on—voices, firewood splitting, kids shrieking down the corridor—but here, in this carved-out moment, you are the only two who exist.
Steven is the one to speak first, rough and low in your ear. “I want—” He breaks off, his voice rough and strangely weak, so unlike the man who just ruined you over a council table you hardly know how to answer it. The man who has ruined you so many times. You lift your head to meet his gaze. The fires in his eyes are guttering now, but not cold—they burn with a different fuel, something almost like desperation.
“I want you to want it,” he says, the words torn from some engine deeper than pride, deeper than need. “Not just because I am your king. Not because it is owed. I want it because you choose it.”
The statement lands in the hollow between your ribs like a fist. You don’t know how to answer except to touch your lips to his, gentle, a whisper of a kiss where violent need reigned just minutes before. You press your mouth to the corner of his, then to the sharp line of his jaw, then the hollow beneath. “I do,” you say, and it’s a word so small it could barely crack a window in the cold stone of the Kongsgård, but you see the effect it has. His grip on you shifts, softer now, and he lets his forehead fall to yours, breaking into a long, shaky exhale. In this way you know that you have power, too—a different kind than you ever imagined, but no less absolute.
You stay like this, bodies twined, until the fire in the hearth burns low and the sweat on your skin cools to a chill. Every inch of you aches in the most delicious, dangerous ways. Your cunt is tender, the ring of your ass still pulsing with the memory of how he split you open and left you gaping. You ought to feel shame, but all you feel is a molten pride that you can take everything Steven gives and still want more.
You let him hold you until your breathing matches his, until your own hands find the strength to fist in the linen at his collar. His sweat cools in the hollow between your bodies, and you let your head rest heavy against his chest, the salt of his skin mixing with your own. Neither of you moves for a long while. When you finally slide off his lap, legs watery as river clay, Steven follows you, only a half-step behind, as if the gravity between your bodies is too constant to fully break.
You should return to your duties. Somewhere you are most certainly needed. But when Steven cups your chin and tilts your face up, his thumb grazing the corner of your mouth, every reason to leave the room vanishes. His lips devour you, slow and thorough, as if he wants to memorize this, encode it in every cell, until no part of you is untouched by the taste of this moment.
You break apart only when the need for air forces you to, but the hunger in it lingers. His hand cups the nape of your neck, thumb stroking slow over the vein that jumps there, and he rests his forehead to yours like a man newly landed from a voyage half the world wide. “You have unmade me,” he says, and it is a confession, not a complaint.
You laugh, shaky and soft, pressing your nose to his. “You did all the unmaking yourself.” The words are true, and you let them settle between you. He grins, the wolfish flash of his teeth just visible, and with it the tension diffuses, neither of you quite knowing what to do with so much tenderness made raw.
You gather yourself, smoothing your wrinkled skirt down over sticky thighs, but Steven is not finished. He crosses to the door, and opens it to speak with the attendant there. He instructs that a meal to be sent up to the royal chamber, and for a bath to be drawn, hot as the hearth can offer. The servant, catching the devastation in your overall appearance and the almost drunken glaze to Steven’s eyes, bows with a speed rarely seen and disappears before the king can clarify any further.
Steven’s attention returns to you. “I do not believe we are fit for anything but to retire for the rest of the day.”
For a moment, you feel like a maiden caught in mischief, but then Steven’s eyes drop to your mouth and you remember you are not a maiden, you are a queen, his queen, and whatever want burns in your blood is not merely allowed, but expected, demanded, starved for. His. Deeply his. And you feel anchored in that surety now.
Are we in a happily ever after yet? No. But things are certainly changing.
Please reblog if you enjoyed this/enjoy this series. My blog got marked as explicit permanently by dumblr, which means that my posts no longer show up in the public tags, so people honestly won't find it unless it's gets passed along by your reblogs now. 🥺 I'm wavering on how much longer it may or may not be worth it to post here if the point is being able to share it with others.
Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
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This fierce, harsh warrior king doesn't know what love is. He's acknowledging the power of strongly he feels for you, but I don't think he will ever say he loves you because he views the word/concept of love as so trite that even now he's not going to ever even think it's sufficient for what he feels. But devotion? Possessive? Protective? Feeling rooted to you? Yes. He's starting to realize that's where he is with you.
Warnings: Pregnancy fluff, nesting, gentle domestic teasing
Words: 300 words
A/N: Entry for June Jukebox Scribbles over @societynsoelsscribbles
Connected to.. this and this (warning 2nd one is heavy)
Prompt: June 15th - Daydream Believer - The Monkees / “But how much, baby, do we really need.”
The cart had started innocent. Just a few things you needed.
Packet of onesies. Two soft blankets. The little knitted hat you had pressed to your chest with wet eyes until Curtis wordlessly put it in the cart himself.
Now it was full.
Tiny socks, washcloths, burp cloths, three different swaddles because what if the baby hated one kind, a stuffed rabbit, and too many outfits in sizes you were no longer certain made sense.
You wanted to prepared.
Curtis stood beside you in the baby aisle, one hand on the cart, the other resting warm at the small of your back. He had been patient for two hours. Steady. Quiet. Encouraging smile whenever you held something up with that hopeful, worried look he never seemed able to say no to.
Until you reached for another blanket.
“Sweetheart...”
You froze, turning looking at him “But?” Curtis eyes softened immediately, because you both knew what tone that was. Not scolding. Not annoyed. Just Curtis preparing to be reasonable while you were feeling anything but.
“But how much, baby, do we really need?”
Your hand tightened around the blanket. “I want them to have everything they need.”
“They will.” His thumb moved slowly over your back. “Just doesn’t all have to be in one trip.”
You looked down at the cart, then at your belly, guilt tangling in your chest. “I’m nesting.”
“I noticed.” He agreed, a small chuckle in his voice. You huffed, but his mouth twitched.
Curtis leaned closer, voice low, but you felt his warm breath near your temple. “You’ve got two months. And impulse buying makes you sad when we get home.”
He was right, and slowly, you put the blanket back.
This just disarmed me fully. I'm just here melting into the softness and Curtis' steady care.
The fact that he's not impatient, doesn't huff, or reprimand you. Just gentle reminder that there will be opportunities to buy more, as well noticing it might distress you later that you bought too much.
Arranged marriage with you being a virging, which is something your father made sure stayed that way to your late twenties. But when he announces that you're to be married to a powerful man you only know from scary stories, you decide to fuck up those big plans.
You're going to lose your virginity and become unfit for such arrangement, ha!
You sneak into the most elite, dark sex club. A bit scared, but so determined.
There's a man who catches your attention, but with the aura around him you don't feel brave enough to aporoach him. You connect gazes with someone else, but before either of you makes a move he seems to disappear.
Instead, that sinfully tempting man approaches you.
The way he talks, guides you, touches you - it makes you tremble in the best way.
You didn't imagine losing your virginity would be this good and filthy, you just wanted it done, but now you'll have hot memories of it to sweeten the hell that's about to break.
When you barge into your father's office and announce to your father that you're no longer a virgin, he's fuming.
Until a calm voice resounds from the side:
"That's not a problem. Since you gave it to me anyway. "
That's when you notice the man sitting in your father's office. The same who had you crying and screaming for him in the club.
Summary: When the English king Henry stands to take over the city of Harfleur, he says he and his army will pass peacefully...if you, the Governor's daughter, spend the night with him.
Word Count: 2784
Warnings: Dub-con and P in V Smut. I write this not because I think this would be okay in real life, but I write this because this is ultimately an erotic fantasy that I frankly think is hot and worth sharing with all of y'all. So read with discretion.
Smut begins at "You let go, already trying to catch your breath" and ends at "I’m going to talk to your father." Yeah, I know it's at the very end. Sorry, not sorry, the smut is crucial to this fic.
A/N: Hello! It's been a minute, but I had this idea forever! Ever since teh infamous Harlefleur scene from Henry V. I hope y'all like it!
The king of England arrived at the gates, and no one knew what to do.
How slow they came, their horses at a mere trot. Their white flags with red crosses waving in the wind. Everyone crowded before them. One officer dragged forward your father, the Governor, and forced him to kneel.
You stood nearby, your mother hugging her arms around you, to shield you, protect you. You could hear the faint, worried murmurs of the crowd all about you. Wondering what would happen. You heard the king of England was making a conquest of France, but how distant it all seemed until he was here.
You looked up at the king in front and center on his white horse. You had never looked at a king before.
You could not deny he was a handsome man. Young, but not boyish. Virile. He was tall and lean, with auburn-blonde curls and a short, cropped beard. High cheekbones. The most piercing blue eyes you have ever seen. And bedecked in his armor, one would think him a knight from a story. Except for the crown.
“Do you understand what happens when an army goes through and sacks a city, governor? What will happen if you do not let us through?” He asked.
There was silence from your father.
The king then spoke, his voice rising.
“Houses will be destroyed, lives will be taken. We will pull your old men by their beards. Your daughters will shriek when they are handed to soldiers. Hungry for their viriginities. Your infants we will set on spikes as their mothers scream. That is what will happen.”
You heard sounds of worry and shock from the crowd. Mothers looked down at their children.
The king looked over. He noticed you. You felt your eyes on him. Growing warm in your face, you lowered your eyes in timidness. Not daring to glare at a king.
It felt like one was at the edge of a cliff and dreading the gust of wind that would fall. One word from the king would release chaos and horrors of all unspeakable kinds. Upon your family. And you.
“But…all this we will avoid, on two conditions…” the king announced. His voice softened.
“Two?” asked your father.
“One, that you let us pass….” began the king.
“And the second?” asked your father.
The king’s eyes fell on you again.
“Who is this woman?” he asked.
“My daughter.”
The king paused a moment before he spoke.
“You offer your daughter to me for the night.”
You felt your heart race. Your stomach began churning. Already, you were trembling all over your limbs. No, you thought, no, no, no, no…
Your mother pulled you in tighter.
“She will not be yours!” she blurted.
The king silenced her with a look.
“You will let us pass. And your daughter will be in my bed. Or I will set my soldiers upon the town,” repeated the king.
But…what choice did you have? If you refused, if your father refused…then how many more women would be raped? How many lives lost or ruined?
“My…my daughter’s honor…” muttered your father, still on his knees.
“Will be compensated, with a wealthy dowry,” assured the king. He nodded at one officer beside him, who pulled out a bag of coins.
“She is not a whore! My daughter is worth more than any of your gold can buy!” your father spat back.
Pulling out of your mother's arms, heart racing, you stepped forward. You walked over and kneeled next to your father.
“Mon pere…let it happen,” you whispered.
Father looked at you, his jaw dropped.
“Tell the king you accept,” you assured him. “I will go to him. It’s only one night, and it will be over. I’ll have a dowry worth more than the one saved up for me. Afterwards, I can marry whoever I want.”
Father turned his head back to the king. He then spoke.
“Your soldiers may pass. And you may have her.”
A deep exhale went throughout the crowd. Your mother put her hands over her mouth, tears in her eyes. Soon enough, Henry took the reins of the horse. He looked over to the man on the horse next to him. An older man with long, grey hair.
“Tonight, we stay here as guests. Grant them mercy,” he ordered.
The older man nodded. He then turned, and word trickled down to the soldiers.
A path was formed among the crowd as the people stepped away, and the king and his horse and army rode through it.
Two hours later, the older man approached you at the door in your home.
“My lady, the king has summoned you,” he announced.
Your mother got out a handkerchief and began to weep. Your father hung his head down in shame. You then walked outside and followed the gentleman through your city of Harlefleur.
You knew already where you were going. Your father may have been the governor, but the Dumont’s were the wealthiest family in town. Their mansion in the center was the largest. So it was there that the king stayed. And it was there that the older man, who was the lord of Exeter, escorted you.
The lord of Exeter walked you through the front door. He guided you upstairs, past the servants of the house. He then led you to one separate room. It had a fireplace and a cream four-poster bed. Inside was a large tub and female servants with cloths and soap.
“The king ordered you to bathe.”
“I’m not dirty,” you said. You were still a lady who took care to always appear proper, especially in front of men. And in front of kings.
“Still, you must be clean before the presence of his majesty,” the lord of Exeter declared. He then closed the door.
They set you in the tub, already full of water. Making sure not to make your hair too wet, they scrubbed all over your body until you were truly clean. You then got out and dried with a towel.
One of the servants, an older woman with wrinkles and grey hair, brought forward a golden dress.
“The king said he would like you to wear this,” she announced.
The maids helped you step into the dress and secured it in the back. They gave you a jeweled belt. They then took care of your hair as you would have liked it. At least you had a little say in these matters.
It was a dress even more beautiful than the ones you owned. It had long sleeves and a small train. The jeweled belt flattered your figure. There was an ample cut square collar that flattered the top of your chest. You were then given a jeweled headdress placed on top of your head.
How did they get this? Was it stolen? From a common woman attacked by a soldier? No, for these were not the clothes of a common woman. From the lady of the house? You didn’t know.
There was a knock on the door. The older woman opened it and revealed the Lord of Exeter.
“Now…it is time,” he announced.
You followed him out, holding up your skirt so you wouldn’t trip. Heads of servants turned towards you, eyes curious. He then led you to a large door. He knocked on it.
“You may enter,” came the king’s voice.
He pushed open the door, and you stepped inside.
Inside, it was lit with candles. There was a table with chairs. Chests here and there. And a great, large bed in the center of it, with thick red blankets and feather pillows. A crackling fireplace. There, dressed in red leathers and his crown in front of the fire, was his majesty the king of England. He was leaning against the railing, but straightened himself once he saw you.
You dipped into the lowest curtsy you could.
“Thank you. You may now leave us, uncle,” said the king.
The lord of Exeter closed the door behind him. Your heart picked up again. You stood still and folded your hands.
“Do you speak English?” he asked.
“Like my mother tongue, your grace,” you answered.
The king walked forward. You kept your eyes down as he circled you. He then stopped in front of you. Hands gesturing forward to the table.
“Here, sit.”
You walked over and sat down. The table was bare except for a bottle of wine and two goblets.
“Would you like some wine?” asked the king.
You did not answer, eyeing the bottle with nervousness.
“Rest assured, there is nothing in it. Only wine,” replied the king.
“Yes, of course.”
He poured out some in a goblet and handed it to you. Inside it was a deep, dark red. It looked almost black. The taste was dry and bitter, but it was strong.
“What is your name?” he asked.
You gave it to him.
He poured his own cup and took a deep drink. He then set it down. You could feel something in his eyes. There was a stillness. As if he was doing everything in his power not to reach out and grab you at once. No, he was showing restraint.
“Do you like the wine?” he asked.
“Yes. It is good, my lord.”
“Would you like any food?”
“No, no thank you, my lord.”
You took another drink, deepening it. If the wine affected you, this would be more pleasant. You could drink your way through this. The king leaned forward, his hands together. He looked all over you.
“You look beautiful.”
“Thank you, my lord,” you replied.
“It pleases me when you say that. You may keep calling me ‘my lord.’ And your majesty.”
“Of course, my lord.”
You took another sip of wine. You were already getting to the end of your drink. You felt your body warmed by the fireplace. Outside, one could hear an owl.
“Why did you make this request, my lord?” you asked.
He was still. Then he spoke in a soft voice.
“My lady, because I want you beyond what words can describe.”
He then stood up and walked to you. He held out a hand, and you accepted it. He led you to stand up. His hands traced over your sides, then up to your face. He even tipped your chin up with his hand.
“Look at me,” he said.
You obeyed.
“Promise me one thing?” he asked.
You looked up at him.
“Never stop looking at me.”
He then leaned forward and kissed you. It was…warm, his lips were soft. Already, you could feel yourself melting in, giving away. It was a sweet kiss, far sweeter than anything you expected would happen tonight.
His hands wandered to your back, supporting you as he gave you another kiss. He leaned down further. His hands clutched onto you.
You let go, already trying to catch your breath. His hands went to the top of your head and took off your headdress. He then went to your belt and undid it as it fell to the floor. His hands then went to the back of your dress, and began to undo it.
You let him. Something in you was growing.
Soon enough, the dress fell to the ground before you. You wore only a shift. Your own breathing was deep. You looked right at him. He took his hands and went to the sleeves on your shoulders of your shift. It was already loose with an open collar.
He then pulled it down by the sleeves.
Soon it fell, revealing your breasts, then the rest of your body as it fell in a circle around your feet.
He looked down at you. His hands grazing your breasts.
“Beautiful,” was all he said.
He took you in his arms and picked you up. You wondered how strong he was; it was as if you were nothing but air. He carried you over to the bed and laid you down.
He took off his own doublet and the shirt beneath it, revealing his chest. You wondered at his muscles. He then removed his codpiece. You could see he was already hard. You wondered how hard he had been the entire time. He took off his boots in a hurry. You leaned forward to have a look. He then removed his pants. Already, his large manhood was reaching high, leaking precum.
He joined you on the bed and hovered over you. You could feel his cock graze your stomach. Hearts racing, you saw him reach his hand and use it to part your legs.
He tested you. He plunged a finger inside your core. Already, you could feel yourself getting wet at his touch. You moaned at it, feeling him inside, digging around.
“Are you a virgin?” he asked.
You gave him your answer. And he nodded.
He prepared you, his finger spreading you open, and then found a spot and teased it. It swirled around you, making space. You then felt him add another finger.
“My…my lord…”
“Spread your legs wider, your king commands it,” he breathed.
You obeyed, going as wide as you could. He set himself between them. He then pulled himself forward, his face meeting your own. His cock at your entrance.
He then thrust forward.
You let out a small sound. He was quite large; there was a pinprick of pain. He pulled out, and then he entered again. And again. He then began a rhythm.
“Oh…oh God…” you moaned out.
He then took your legs and hooked them so they were around his waist. He was breathing in deep. He plunged, this time further.
“Oh!” you cried out.
“Sweet lady-yes- dear, sweet lady,” he panted out between thrusts. “Yes-yes-keep-don’t be quiet. Don’t be timid-oh-just-just keep telling me- let them know, let them all know how the king pleasures you.”
He dove in again, letting out a grunt. A sound you never knew you could make flew out of you. His hand then dove into you. It found your bud and began to strum you as he continued to thrust in and out.
“Does-does your king give you pleasure?” he grunted.
“Yes-yes, my lord!” you began to cry out.
It began to speed up. Something in you was spinning, spinning up. Your voice was starting to rise; you were gripping the bedsheets.
He then paused, and he pulled out of you. Before you could ask any questions, he had you flipped onto your stomach.
“Hold onto the bed,” he demanded.
You grabbed the headboard. Gripping it tight. Knowing exactly what was going to happen.
He then took you again from this different angle, and you felt him behind you.
“Oh, oh god, my lord!” you cried out. The pain mixed with pleasure from his position. He himself let out another cry.
He increased the pace. Pounding into you with a fury. Breasts bouncing, your own cries and moans grew louder and louder. But the pleasure was immense. The filthiness of this act, of him being behind you- it rose something in you that you couldn’t name. You only held tighter onto the headboard as he started to pound into you.
“Oh god- oh god! My-my lord!”
“Call-call me Henry!” he then demanded.
“Oh-yes, yes, my lord! Yes, Henry!”
“Yes-yes-use-use my name- keep saying it!”
His hands reached between your legs and fiddled with your bud again. Going at a more furious pace, the bed shaking. His own grunts and moans increasing. But so did the strength of his strokes on your bud. That, mixed with this position, gave you that spinning feeling again. That rising sensation.
“I-I am too-hold on-yes, yes, like that-make me have you, come now, your-your king commands you-”
Soon enough, it broke on you. You felt suspended in bliss, in pure, pure pleasure. With a final cry, he came too, and you felt his hot seed spurt inside you. Both of you lay there, panting. Your hold onto the headboard slipped, and you fell into the bed.
He pulled out of you and then grabbed your waist. He pulled you down to lie beside him, still panting hard. You placed a hand on his pectorals. The sudden warmth seeping through you. Here he was, holding you. He held you tight to him; you could hear his heartbeat and smell the woods on him.
“I’m going to talk to your father. I’ll keep you as a concubine. You won’t leave my side,” he said as he caught his breath.
The second Henry was like "She spends the night with me I was like"
BOOM SHAKA LAKAAAAA YES GAWD
And like we know how Reader got here and the circumstances surrounding it, but I appreciate how he was at least a bit considerate to have her dressed and cleaned before he absolutely ravaged her with a royal mango ride.
Like when he said "Hold on to the bed"????
Though I have to be honest if after all that and then he capped it off with "I will make you my concubine"? Like yes I would agree so that my family is taken care of but also the way that I would be an absolute menace to this man. Like good sir you are the king, you can find a way to bend the rules. Make me your damn Queen and don't ever think about concubines fucking ever again thank you and goodnight--
A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: Fears burden the mind.
Word Count: 4,3k
Warnings: Explicit language, mentions of pregnancy, adult themes, suggestive themes. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.
Series Masterlist
Back at the Reach, one of the things both you and Margaery would get reprimanded for was gossip.
It wasn’t rare for either of you to stay up until the hour of the wolf and going over what happened during the day over and over again, focusing on a different person each time. Sometimes it’d be about fashion, or paramours, or the latest scandal, but there was always something.
And now, especially with the king’s visit, you had so much to go over, yet Margaery wasn’t here, and you still didn’t trust anyone in Winterfell.
So you had found a different solution.
“Robb, wake up!”
Robb let out a small groan when you shook him by the chest.
“Wake up,” you insisted. “I have things to tell you.”
“Can it wait?” he mumbled into his pillow, and you shook your head even though he couldn’t see you.
“Do you not find it strange that the king ignores the queen all the time?”
Robb’s eyes fluttered open and he squinted at you, the sight of his messy auburn curls making your chest all warm.
“What time is it?” he rasped out and you shrugged.
“Early. It’s rather rude of him, is it not? He ignored her in front of everyone when they first got here. And then at the feast too.”
“Why are you—”
“And not only did he ignore her, he also humiliated her at the feast, in front of people!” you insisted. “Does he not like her at all, do you think?”
“You woke up at this hour to gossip?”
“We barely talked last night,” you whined, your shoulders dropping in defeat while he smirked.
“We were too busy to talk.”
“But I wanted to talk!” you insisted. “And now that you’re awake—”
“I’m not awake.” He threw his arm around your torso to pull you to his chest, coaxing a giggle out of you as you propped yourself up on your elbows.
“Is it not strange?” you asked. “I mean when they wed, everyone agreed that she was the most—” You shook him, making him groan again. “Robb, I don’t think you’re listening!”
“Gods be good…”
“Has your father said anything about them?”
“No.”
“How come you—” A squeal escaped you when he squeezed your butt still half asleep, but you reached back to grab his wrist. “Not now, focus! Why didn’t you ask?”
“Why would I ask?”
You rolled your eyes.
“I swear I will never understand men,” you grumbled. “How are you not curious? He doesn’t like her, it’s very surprising.”
“Is it?” he asked with a yawn and opened his eyes, then ran a hand over his face as if trying to get rid of the haze of sleep. “Of course he doesn’t like her, she’s not pleasant at all.”
“Maybe not to other people, but she probably was pleasant to him at least at first,” you said. “She must have tried. There is no way she did not.”
“I suppose sometimes it just doesn’t work.”
“Her family is powerful,” you insisted, counting with your fingers, “she’s beautiful, educated, fashionable—”
A chuckle escaped him. “I don’t think the king cares much about fashion.”
“It helps still,” you commented. “I don’t know, the realm thinks she’s everything a queen is expected to be. And they have three children together, one would assume…”
“Hm?”
“How did he not eventually fall in love with her?”
He folded an arm under his head. “Maybe his love for Aunt Lyanna does not let him love anyone else.”
“It is rather odd, how every man has a different reaction to being left behind,” you muttered, heaving a sigh as you rested your chin on his chest, absentmindedly tracing his muscles. “The king wed and fathered children, but he still loves your aunt. And my father never recovered after my mother. No mistresses or wife, even though everyone kept pressuring him. It makes me wonder what she would think. Or what your aunt would think had she lived.”
If you hadn’t been so lost in your own thoughts, you would’ve noticed the silence falling upon the room, or his body tensing up.
“I guess there’s a reason why so many love ballads are sad,” you mused. “Heartbreak one way or another. That might be the one thing years cannot take away.”
He was so quiet that for half a minute you were convinced he had fallen asleep again. Yet, his deep voice that rumbled in his chest and vibrated underneath your palm didn’t sound sleepy at all when he finally spoke, the stern command almost taking you by surprise.
“You’re not allowed to do that.”
You lifted your head to blink up at him.
“Do what?”
“You’re not allowed to die before me.”
You couldn’t stop your chortle. “Robb…”
“I’m serious. You cannot.”
“When it comes to longevity, the gods seem to favor men more,” you couldn’t help but point out. “Men die in battle in wartime. Women die in childbirth regardless of war or peace.”
His eyes found yours.
“Is that what you fear?” he asked quietly and you pinched your lips, trying to pick the right words.
“I don’t think fear is the right word for it,” you ended up saying. “I’m no fool, I know what happened to my mother was largely related to the very short time between the twins’ birth and mine.”
Silas and Arys had told you that. Upon hearing your septa talking about how motherhood came with a price and the childbirth was the ultimate sacrifice, Silas had said fuck off to her face, making you burst into laughter even with the fear churning your stomach.
“My sister will not be sacrificed just so that some prick somewhere can have an heir,” Silas had spat. “And she will be educated to minimize the danger. Stop filling her head with nonsense, unless you want my father to release you of your duties.”
Arys had been the one to tell you all about it; how it was of importance that one’s body was given enough time to rest.
“When you wed,” he had told you, “you’ll have many herbs at your disposal. We’re not letting you wed anyone who you might not like, but regardless of how much you might like your future husband, you are putting your own health first. Always. No babe is more important than you, and you’re not making the same mistake mother and father did. You will only have kids when you’re ready, and they will have at least 3 years between them, not like us.”
“We won’t…” Robb started, then paused and shook his head. “I would never put you through that.”
Nor were you going to put yourself through that. You were going to be very careful and take nothing for granted, because you knew how it went for your mother; she’d had such easy childbirths until you, and each time she had bounced back so fast that both she and your father were convinced nothing bad would happen.
So the gods had decided to prove to them otherwise.
“No,” you said in an attempt to sound more confident than you felt, willing yourself not to think about Arrana’s bad wish. “It won’t be like that for me.”
But there was still that danger.
Even if you did everything right, there was still that danger, for you and for every woman in the realm.
However, Robb was never going to hear that from you, not even with a blade to your throat. He wasn’t going to hear that, your own family wasn’t going to hear that, none of the Starks were going to hear that, none of your ladies-in-waiting or your maids were going to hear that.
The only person whom you had shared those concerns with was Margaery, and it was going to stay that way.
“Nothing bad is going to happen to me,” you added, desperate to disperse the gloomy air that felt almost suffocating around you. “Besides, no use worrying about any of that, only the gods know these things. Look at your own mother, she’s very healthy and she’s had five children so far—”
He pulled his brows together, confusion snapping him out of his own thoughts. “So far?”
Of course it worked.
“Well yes.” You shrugged your shoulders. “So far. You never know, they’re both still young—”
From the grimace twisting his handsome face, one would’ve thought you had spoken of something utterly unacceptable.
“Seven hells, don’t say that!”
A burst of laughter escaped you. “Robb, my love, I don’t know how to tell you this, but the fact that you have four other siblings—”
“That happened in the past!”
“Rickon is still little,” you argued. “And your mother and father are in love, anyone could see that. It’s normal!”
“It’s not normal,” he said, still grimacing while he motioned at the door. “He loves her from…from afar.”
“Mm, from up close. Very close, I’d say, because five kids is no duty—”
“From a respectable distance.”
“No to that also.”
He made a noise of disgust. “Can we stop talking about this? They’re too old to have a babe.”
“They’re not too old.”
“Fine, I’m too old to have a sibling,” he said, your laughter bouncing off the walls. “And I refuse to believe they would betray me like that.”
“Oh, such betrayal,” you said in an exaggerated manner, a hand on your chest. “Disaster, if you will.”
“Aye, it would be.”
You rolled your eyes at him while his gaze darted over your face, a frown pinching his forehead again.
“But you’ll be—” He swallowed thickly. “You’ll be fine, when…”
He didn’t need to finish his sentence, you knew exactly what he was referring to. You turned your bracelet around your wrist, heaving a dramatic sigh.
“How about this?” you said. “You give me your word that you won’t die in war, and I’ll give you my word that nothing will happen to me in childbirth. That’s called diplomacy, if you’re too northern to recognize such concept.”
That managed to make him huff out a chuckle, though the haunted look in his eyes didn’t disappear, not completely. He nodded after a beat, reaching out to cradle your cheek in his palm.
“Very well,” he said. “I give you my word. Do you?”
You lifted yourself a little to brush your lips against his, his hand slipping from your cheek to the side of your neck. His other arm snaked around your waist to press you to his body, butterflies erupting in your stomach.
“I do,” you said, a smile warming your face. “See? Who said the north and the south can’t negotiate?”
All your ladies-in-waiting agreed that the queen had to have grown bitter in time, perhaps because of her husband, perhaps because of her responsibilities, and perhaps because she had fewer admirers now than when she first wed the king. You didn’t know the reason, nor did you say too much out loud, but you were more than aware that she did not look happy at any time, with the exception of when she was talking to her brother.
Well, one of them, at least. Her other brother, Tyrion had arrived in Winterfell nearing the end of last night’s feast, having spent the whole day in a brothel in Wintertown, so if you had to guess, he was going to get along well with Theon.
Robb was busy throughout the afternoon, and so were you. While he went on a hunt with his father and the king, you and some of your ladies-in-waiting were tasked with taking baskets of food and herbs to Wintertown per Lady Stark’s orders. As much as you liked going to Wintertown, you still wondered whether there were no servants left in the castle to do this exact task, but you managed to keep your mouth shut.
She was probably making sure everyone in Wintertown had seen you and talked to you, and this was a good way to make sure of that.
Or perhaps she was trying to keep you out of the queen’s sight after that little exchange of yours the other night, that could’ve been the reason as well.
Alys, Lyra and Wylla had gone into the other street, leaving you with Barbrey and Jorelle. It had taken you a much shorter time to give the baskets to all the houses you were supposed to visit, so now you were waiting for the others while you explored the market, making small talk with vendors as Barbrey and Jorelle trailed after you. This was yet another instance that you couldn’t help but note was different in here, because back in the south, the vendors sold many different types of jewelry seeing that it was popular among noble ladies. In the north, rather than jewelry, women embroidered their gowns with beads and intricate pieces of bronze, copper and ivory.
Perhaps you could use some of those on your cloaks at least.
“…And my cousin will visit Winterfell with her lord husband, and she’ll die when she sees me,” Barbrey chattered. “I doubt she believed me when I wrote to her to tell her I’m a lady-in-waiting. I’m planning to get a new gown and embroider it by the time she visits, she’ll be so jealous!”
You accidentally exchanged glances with Jorelle who looked like she was trying her hardest to keep herself from rolling her eyes at Barbrey.
“Her wedding was two years ago, and she had the audacity to criticize what I wore to it. And let me tell you, her wedding gown wasn’t so impressive either! Her lord husband is of House Flint, and her gown had eyes all over it, it looked so weird.”
You raised your brows. “Her gown had eyes?”
“House Flint’s words are Ever Vigilant,” Jorelle explained, “and their banner has a pair of eyes on it.”
“And it looked like she was wearing the banner itself,” Barbrey added. “Let’s see whose gown is better now. And also, if I may, I’m sure I’ll make a better marriage now that I’m—”
“Barbrey, did you see that vendor over there?” Jorelle cut her off. “I think they have more colorful beads over there, they’d look good on your purple gown.”
“You’re right!” Barbrey gasped. “My lady, may I—?”
“Please go ahead,” you said a bit quicker than intended, but Barbrey was too excited to notice that. She rushed to the stall Jorelle was pointing at, and Jorelle let out a breath.
“There. Some peace and quiet.”
You bit back a smile. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
You sometimes wondered whether you would’ve been able to get along well with Jorelle if it weren’t for her family and her whole almost betrothal with Robb. She probably held some resentment for you, and you still felt rather threatened by her. Despite that, sometimes she reminded you of Margaery with the calm air around her that made it nearly impossible to see through her, but you cast the thought away from your mind, forcing yourself to look at the beads on the tray.
“These look nice,” you commented as you approached the counter. “Are you good at embroidery, Jorelle?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Not my absolute favorite, but yes.”
“What is your absolute favorite?”
“I like riding.”
Right.
Of course she liked riding.
“So do I,” you said, taking a couple of bronze pieces into your palm to inspect them. “Silk is faster than my horses back in the Reach, but I’m getting used to such speed.”
“Your brother gifted her to you, did he not?”
“Yes. Cliff.”
She stole a look at you.
“And you’re close with all your brothers?”
“Mm hm. Well, Silas is the one I’m closest with, and then the twins. Arys and Cliff left home quite early, so I see them very rarely. Mostly on my namedays and such.” You lifted your gaze from the pieces in your hand. “I think you’ve talked to Perceon?”
Jorelle blinked a couple of times, her cheeks betraying her nonchalant demeanor when they turned pink.
“Yes,” she said, making herself busy with the beads. “He was—he is very southern.”
“Dornish, more like.”
A silence fell upon you and Jorelle nibbled on her lip, her eyes falling on Barbrey before turning to you.
“Can I ask you something?”
You put the bronze pieces back and grabbed a particularly shiny bead. “Of course.”
“Why did you…” she trailed off. “Why did you choose her to be among your ladies-in-waiting? After what Arrana has said?”
That question wasn’t about Barbrey, and you both knew it.
You had to give it to Jorelle, unlike other northerners, she did know how to be subtle. A bitter smile twitched your lips as you put the bead down, then reached for a thin silver chain, pretending to direct your attention on it.
“I’m very southern,” you said, your voice silky. “That’s one of the many cultural differences, I’ve found. Northerners are quite direct about alliances or enmity, but back in the south, it’s more complex than that. We’re taught to keep some people close, precisely because of lack of trust.”
She raised her brows, staring at you as if the remark had taken her by surprise.
“Ah,” she said after a beat, pressing her lips into a thin line. “I see.”
“My lady!” Wylla called out, making you look over your shoulder to see her approach you with Lyra and Alys following her. “We’re finished. Shall we go back?”
You thought for a moment, then shrugged your shoulders.
“Let’s stay a while longer,” you said, linking your arm through hers to lead her to the nearest stall. “I have plans for some of my cloaks, and I am in a desperate need of some beads.”
Much to your displeasure, you couldn’t see Robb for the rest of the day. He had been with his father and the king in the Wolfswood the entire day, and they hadn’t returned to the castle during dinner either, because of the king’s request to have their dinner in the woods like he and Lord Stark used to whenever they went hunting in their youth.
At least that was the explanation Robb mumbled into your ear when he joined you in bed at dawn, waking you up with kisses instead of going to sleep himself. At first you had assumed he would be too tired, especially after having spent the whole night in the woods, but you were soon proven wrong.
There were many things, you had found, that you loved when it came to marital bed. The act itself was pleasurable beyond words, Robb always made sure you enjoyed it every single time, unlike what that lady of the night had told you back in the Reach. You hadn’t even thought it possible before, but it made you fall in love with him even more, your heart so full of him that it sometimes made you worry whether there would be room for anything else. You enjoyed his kisses, his touch, his weight upon you, and how he made you feel before and during, and after.
That was one of your favorite parts as well.
After.
How he held you until your trembling passed, with chaste kisses and the sweetest praises that made your stomach flutter happily. Even now, while you tried to catch your breath with his arm around you that pressed you tight against his chest, you felt half delirious, all thoughts but him shattered to different corners in your mind, impossible to put back together. He pressed a kiss on your damp forehead, his other hand brushing back your hair before he dipped his head and his lips found yours. You couldn’t decide if the fire that colored his cheeks was because of the heat of the room or the chase of pleasure more; a sheen of sweat making him glow under the sunlight spilling through the thin curtains around the bed. His curly auburn hair was a mess in the most handsome way, and the light in his eyes was so soft that you could swear your heart melted when he looked down at you with a fond smile, awakening your own.
You felt tired, and sore, and sticky all over, but most of all; completely and utterly happy.
“What are you thinking about?” you whispered while your fingertips traced his chest up and down, light as a feather.
“How pretty you are,” he said, the northern accent in his deep voice drawing a giddy giggle out of you before you brushed your lips against his.
“Right answer,” you said. “Especially after spending a whole day away from me.”
“It wasn’t by choice,” he grumbled. “I considered sneaking back into the castle like a common thief, more than once.”
The image his words conjured up in your mind was too funny for you to hold back your laughter. “Really?”
“My beautiful wife was in our bed waiting for me, and I was in the woods with a bunch of men.”
“But you were hunting,” you told him. “You love hunting.”
“Lamb, I promise you, there’s nothing I love more than this.” He motioned at your naked body, making you scrunch up your nose in embarrassment. “I was all but taken hostage. Just because the king doesn’t want to go back to his wife doesn’t mean he should assume the rest of us share that sentiment.”
…Was that—?
Was that Robb gossiping?
“Did he say that?”
“No, but he said something else while drunk,” he answered with a grimace, making your jaw drop. “I will not repeat those words to you, but he dislikes her even more than you assume.”
Very well, there was room for improvement there.
Not everyone could be a natural like you and Margaery, you’d teach him how to gossip in time.
“The queen drinks too,” you said. “I noticed it at the feast, and tonight’s dinner as well. Too much wine.”
“Might be the only thing they have in common.”
“Not the only thing, because she doesn’t like him either,” you said. “Have I told you the other night at the feast, she tried to give me advise, and then she said…”
“Hm?”
“She said she hopes we’ll be as happy as her and the king.”
Robb flicked his gaze up for a second with a scoff, the gesture so similar to the way you rolled your eyes whenever you were annoyed.
“She can keep hoping,” he said. “Seven hells, I can’t wait until they all leave.”
“But you don’t think—” You paused. “Do you think it was like that always?”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s rather bitter, and all my ladies-in-waiting have many ideas about the reason. The queen had a lot of admirers when she was young, and Lyra has this theory that when one who’s used to compliments grows old…” you trailed off. “I don’t believe time takes away beauty, but I don’t want to be bitter like that when I grow old.”
His fingertips traced shapes on your bare skin. “You won’t.”
“It worried me all day today.”
“It shouldn’t have.”
“But perhaps she wasn’t like that either at first, because—”
“You couldn’t be bitter if you tried, it’s not in you.” The corners of his mouth curled, the glint in his eye making you blink up at him in confusion. “And I would know, I was just in you.”
A gasp left you and you pushed at his shoulder, heat sweeping over your face like a firestorm.
“I’m talking about something of importance!” you whined when he caught your wrist, his laugh echoing in the room. “And you’re making jests—”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” he cooed, though that mischievous smile of his betrayed the gentle tone of his voice. “I’m sorry. Come here.”
He pulled you to himself while you pouted at him, your brows knitted together in defiance. He bit back his grin, the pad of his thumb smoothing over the pinch of your frown before he cradled your cheek, his lips finding yours. That familiar warmth dripped down and down, a half sigh hitching in your throat as the kiss deepened, melting away your frustration along with every other thought that was plaguing your mind. Your eyes fluttered open when he nudged your nose with his, then pressed a kiss on the corner of your mouth, coaxing a giggle out of you.
“Jesting aside,” he said, the pleasant rumble of his voice vibrating under your palm resting on his chest. “It shouldn’t have worried you.”
“But what if you—”
“It shouldn’t have worried you, because there will never come a time when I look at you and not forget to breathe.”
Whatever you were going to say disappeared somewhere between your mind and your mouth while you gazed up at him, painfully aware of the lovesick smile on your face.
“And also,” he added, idly playing with your hair. “I meant it when I said you couldn’t if you tried. Your heart is too soft to be anything like her.”
That made your smile falter. You bit inside your cheek in deep thought, and when you spoke, your voice was almost too low to hear in the already quiet room:
“Everyone says life has a way of hardening hearts.”
He ran his knuckles down your spine as if trying to assure you.
“You entrusted me with yours to safekeep,” he murmured. “I will protect it from harm, for as long as I draw breath. Such fears will never come true, I promise.”
Tears rushed to your eyes out of nowhere but you blinked them away fast, desperate to swallow the lump in your throat. You captured his lips with yours, his hand slipping to your jaw to tilt your head, but you were both pulled out of the haze when someone pounded on the door, making you recoil in his arms.
“What?” Robb snapped at whoever it was behind the door. “What is it?”
It took you only a second to understand something was wrong.
“Robb, it’s—” Jon’s voice cracked mid-sentence before he took a shaky breath. “It’s Bran. He fell from the Broken Tower.”
Pairing: Din Djarin x reader/ The Mandalorian x reader
Word Count: 300
Summary: The Mandalorian’s enemy has taken it too far with your kidnapping and now he will suffer for it.
Author’s Note: This is for June 11th of @societynsoelsscribbles June Jukebox Scribbles and the song: ‘Little Bitty Pretty One’ and the lyric: “come on and talk to me.” Thank you both for hosting and thank you all so much for reading and sharing! Much love always!🩷🩷🩷Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy🥰
Warnings: being held captive, illusions of injury, Mando is in a rage, soft fluffiness and maybe a giggle at the end
June Jukebox Scribbles Masterlist
You roll your forehead against the cool stone floor. Far behind you, there’s the sound of banging, the doors shuddering under the force.
BOOM!
The doors blow open, debris splintering everywhere You sense him before you hear his agonized roar.
The air shifts and you feel his hand glide over your skin.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, usually strong voice breaking. “He will pay. For everything.”
Somewhere nearby you hear the heavy footfalls of Moff Gideon approach, and you tense even in your weakened state. Djarin’s grip tightens around you before his hands leave you and he stands.
Gideon taunts Djarin, seeking a reaction that never comes. The Mandalorian stalks after him, steady steps filled with coiled rage. Gideon strikes out with the dark saber, but Djarin blocks it, his Beskar unbreaking.
Most of his body is hidden under his fitted armor, but even with so little showing, he is so obviously a dangerous thing. And then he strikes so fast you barely register the attack and with the help of Grogu, the dark saber is free from Gideon’s grasp, and he lay bleeding out on the floor.
Djarin slides his hands under your body as he gently lifts you, your choked sound muffled as you turn your head into his chest.
“It’s alright baby. I’ve got you.”
You force your eyes to remain open, curling tighter against him.
“Come on and talk to me,” he pleads.
Your eyes focus on Grogu who hangs on his shoulder, ears bent back with worry. “Got any cookies buddy?”
You can feel Djarin’s body sag with relief at your request and Grogu reaches inside his robe, taking out a cookie, biting it once then handing it to you.
With a nuzzle you settle against Djarin’s body, the feeling of safety surmounting all else.
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you fell for bucky a long, long while ago. and you think about him, every day and every night. if only you knew that he thought about you too.✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, friends to lovers, light emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, fluff, smut, plot and porn mix (dirty talk, use of sex toys , fingering, pussy eating like crazy, fantasization, praise kink, manhandling, perfectly "appropriate" use of bucky's metal arm, nipple play, dumbification, semi-public sex, dry humping, sensitive reader, finger sucking, masturbation, bucky gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, mean!bucky, oral m!recieving, praise kink, monster dick bucky, he fucks like a machine), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 7.5k✦
✦Author's Note: request! who wouldn't fantasize about bucky barnes?✦
You think you might be a freak.
Compared to everyone else in the building, you’re perfectly normal. On the outside. Where everyone can see. You don’t have any powers, and you’ve never been shot up with serums or infinity stones. You’re a human, with a sharp tongue and shaper brain, pretty features and a charming smile, and absolutely no desire to be anything else.
Tony even asked you once. If you’d consider it. The whole hero thing. You’d laughed and shaken your head. You told him that you’re not that kind of brave. That you prefer to stay behind the scenes, helping with the tech and med services. Tony had laughed with you, and remarked causally that you’d be good at it.
You’d smiled and waved him off. But he was wrong. Because you can’t be normal about anything.
You’re not casual. You’re obsessive, and quietly insane. You don’t become the top of your field like this while being anything else. It’s easy to contain yourself in this kind of work, in it’s order and chaos all at once. There are rules that you to follow, then break, and everyone praises you and you glow like a diamond catching sunlight.
Not absorbing it. Because it passes right through, and it’s never enough, and you get addicted to it. The praise, from these living gods. They all love you, and you bask in it, and then you look at him.
Bucky.
The only one who doesn’t praise you. Who doesn’t treat you like a good dog, bringing them treats and newspapers. When you met him, he barely treated you like anything at all. Tony had introduced you, he’d looked you up and down, shaken your hand, and walked away.
But you.
You’d been a fucking goner.
Bucky’s handsome in the way you used to only see in movies. Your exact type, from the hair to the eyes to the way he carries himself. Silent and in control, kind but not overly nice, polite without expectation. You’d made it two years without developing a crush on anyone. Somehow, surrounded by some of the world’s most handsome men, you’d maintained that tiny sliver of your sanity.
Then there was Bucky. And you lost yourself.
You’re not weird around him. You’re not a stalker, and you’re not that kind of insane. You’re perverted in the privacy of your head, drooling over his massive hands and muscles, but swallowing it before it leaks out of your lips. You don’t react when Tony says his name, save for a traitorous pulse in your cunt.
“You ready to look at his arm?” Tony asks, and you hum.
“Think so. Just maintenance?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tony sighs. “I’d work on Terminator myself, but Cap says I spend the whole time looking like I want to throat chop him. So,” he shrugs. “Don’t look like you wanna throat chop him.”
You laugh softly, and grab the tools off the bench. It’s not a big deal. You’re the only person besides Tony, in the whole building, who’s qualified to work on Bucky’s arm.
But that means you get to be close to him. Just the thought of it makes your skin hot, your heart buzzing more than thumping, your fingers fidgeting with the straps of your toolkit as you restlessly wait.
Bucky says your name, and your head shoots up. He’s there. He’s right there, and watching you with those careful, beautiful eyes.
“Hi,” you say, and it sounds so pathetically breathless.
Bucky tilts his head. His hair looks soft. You want to run your fingers through it, to pull on it, to feel it tickling over your face as he ruts into your drooling pussy-
He’s staring at you. He must’ve said something that you didn’t hear. Fuck.
“What?”
His lips twitch. Just the smallest movement up, almost impossible to catch. Your heart skips, and you almost miss his words again.
“You the one workin’ on me today?” His voice is low. It rolls through the air like thunder.
You wonder, if there’s any part of him that isn’t addictive.
You’re here for a job. You’re here to give him medical treatment. You plaster a sweet smile on your face, and gesture to the chair. You can be normal about this.
“Tony has bad bedside manner,” you say smoothly, and Bucky chuckles.
God, that’s worse than the smile. It echoes through your chest, and you almost choke on it. How fucking bad you want him.
“He does call me Schwarzeneggerevery time I’m here,” he mutters, crossing the room. “Don’t even know what that means.”
You hum, pretending to look at your tools. He’s sitting down next to you. Your knees are bumping. You’re normal. “Arnold Schwartzinagor. Actor who played the Terminator.”
“Ah.” Bucky pauses. “Sam calls me that, too. It a good movie?”
“It’s fine.” You shrug. “If you like stuff from the 80s.”
“I don’t know things from the 80s.”
You laugh softly, and look up with an apology on your tongue. You find Bucky staring at you, and your breath catches in your throat.
His eyes are so intense, you think they can see right through you. To the lust, pounding in your bloodstream. You have to open your mouth to breathe. Bucky’s eyes flick down. Just tracking a movement. Nothing about you.
You kick yourself internally, and push the casual smile back into place.
“I think you’d like some of it.” You reach for his arm, and Bucky turns it palm up, still staring at you. “I mean, any decade will have it’s ups and downs.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You run your fingers over the plates of metal, and for a second, forget all about the Bucky attached to them. It’s a beautiful artwork of technology. Overlapping, gold-inlaid, smooth under your fingers. You turn the wrist slowly, and there’s only a faint whir. No clicks. Shuri must be using a muffler, or some kind of fluid that moves the wires instead of gears-
“You want me to go?”
Your head shoots up, a panicked flush spreading over your cheeks. “No- No- I- I’m just-“
Bucky raises his brows, light amusement dancing in his eyes. Your words falter. He’s fucking with you.
“Shut up,” you roll your eyes, and Bucky chuckles again.
God, that sound. It’s going to be the death of you.
“It’s just- It’s amazing technology.” You mumble defensively, and Bucky shrugs.
“I can tell, from the way you’re eye fuckin’ it.”
“Eye fucking.” You shake your head, biting back your smile. “How do you even know what that means?”
“Too much time with Sam.”
“Hm,” you grab your screwdriver, running your hands up the mock muscle—he should be thanking Shuri even more, she didn’t have to give him biceps—looking for a panel. “Tony told me you weren’t going to talk.”
“Tony’s got that bad bedside manner,” Bucky shrugs with his good arm. “You gonna be nicer to me, doll?”
You just hum, ducking your head to hide your flush. Doll. He called you doll.
And Bucky huffs an amused laugh, at your non-answer. But he keeps talking to you. He tells you what Sam’s already gotten him to watch, and what Steve’s trying to get him to watch next, and what Steve’s saving so they can look at it together.
“Is Star Wars any good?” He asks, and you snort.
“Do you like cowboys?”
“I’m neutral.”
“Do you like space?”
“Yeah,” he pauses, then mutters, “I wanted to go to the moon. When I was a kid.”
You look up, and find a faraway look, etched over his handsome features. Your smile softens, and you lower your voice to a whisper, because this feels like a secret. “Yeah?”
Bucky nods, his eyes finding yours again. “I heard we got up there eventually.”
“We did. A few times.” It’s hard to hold his gaze. An unbearable ache is staring to pool between your thighs. “But now there are aliens on earth, so the final frontier is less… Coveted.”
Bucky’s lips twitch. It seems to be the closest he really gets to smiling. You want to see it over, and over, and over again.
“I think you’d like Star Wars.” You’re still whispering. You don’t know why.
“Alright,” Bucky says. And that’s it. He just… Trusts your words.
He asks for you again, next week. Tony claps you on the shoulder and thanks you, because Christ, he stares at me and I feel like I’m under surveillance. You roll your eyes and don’t respond. It doesn’t feel like that when Bucky stares at you, but he also does stare at everyone. So you’re not special. You’re just another person in his line of sight.
“I tried those donuts you were talkin’ about,” he tells you one afternoon, and you hum.
It’s the new routine. Bucky comes for you to work on his arm. You’re normal about it. You talk like people, and his lips twitch, and you feel something press on top of your chest, trying to gnaw your heart right open.
“Liked them,” he adds, staring at you. As always.
You hum, looking at him under your lashes. “Did you have the cookies and cream?”
He nods. “Just like you told me to.”
You smile despite yourself. It’s those small confirmations that he thinks about you, which get you the most. It means you mean something to him. It drives you insane.
“Sam says there are all kinds of ice cream flavors now, too.”
“Sam’s right.”
Bucky sighs. “Hate it when that happens.”
You laugh, a bubbly, pathetic sound that only Bucky pulls out of you. His fingers twitch under your hand, and you glance up.
It would be wise, if you stopped doing that. Every time you find him staring at you, you feel fucking insane.
“You should try cotton candy ice cream,” you murmur. “It’s fucking crazy.”
“That is my favorite kind of thing.”
“I know.”
Bucky’s lips twitch, and your heart almost bursts. “You got a good place? For ice cream?”
You shrug. “The grocery store?”
Bucky grunts, and his fingers twitch again. You focus back on his hand, because you don’t understand why they keep doing that. The rest of the session passes, and Bucky smiles at you before he goes, and you hold onto it like he just handed you a pearl-strung noose. Clutched between your teeth and priceless, but making your breathing short.
The rest of the day always passes in a daze, after you see Bucky. The seconds rush past you in an avalanche, and then you’re in your room, and you let it take over.
How much you want him. How much you need him.
You lay, flat on your back in bed, and let your thoughts run wild. Bucky’s massive hands, one cool and one burning hand, would wander up your thighs. He’d shove your knees open, and kiss over the sensitive, hidden patches of skin. The stubble he’s been growing would scrape and tickle, as he kissed over your weeping pussy.
“All for me?” He’d murmur, and you’d nod helplessly. “You just walk around, pussy leakin’ because of how bad you need it?”
And you’d whimper. You do. There’s nothing you can do to help it, but save that desire for locked doors and hot, tangled sheets. Your fingers—smaller than Bucky’s, but all you have—rub over the swollen lips of your pussy, spreading your arousal as you picture that it’s Bucky instead. You push one finger in slowly, then a second one because you need them to stretch you like Bucky’s would.
“Messy girl,” he’d coo in your ear, and your back arches. You start to fuck yourself, slow and tentative as your thoughts run wild.
This is what just one of his fingers would feel like. Pumping in and out of you, his palm grinding down on you clit until you’re trembling beneath him. You’d try to push up into his hand, but he’d shove you right back down and kiss over your throat. Licking and nipping and driving you out of your fucking mind.
“Buckyyyy...” You moan at the air, and when you squeeze your eyes shut you can almost feel him.
“There you go, babydoll,” he’d kiss under your ear, his body pressing over yours. Warm and massive, pinning you to the bed, forcing you to just take it. “That’s it. You like that, don’t you. Like fallin’ apart on my fingers.”
You whimper and grab at the sheets. Your wrist aches, and you can’t hit that gooey, wet spot inside you, but god you just need to cum.
“I know,” Bucky would hit deeper. Wet, lewd sounds would fill the room, as he pounded his fingers into you at an unforgiving pace. “I know, sweet girl. C’mon, show me how pretty you are when you cum.”
Your back arches off the bed. Your hand shoots over your mouth as you moan and cry out his name, your thighs shaking and pussy squeezing down on your fingers. You lay there for a while after you’re done, holding the sheets in a vague form of Bucky.
Tomorrow, you’re going to see him again. Maybe just over breakfast, or passing in the hall. But you’ll see him. And you’ll have to look him in the eyes, and pray that he can’t see it just under your features. That all he’d ever need to do it touch your head, and you’d fall to your knees.
You’re devoted to him. He thinks of you as a friend, and he’s not your boss, but he’s boss adject, and there’s nothing about him that’s accessible. There’s no world where this ever goes beyond fantasy.
But god, you’re going to fantasize. You can’t hurt anyone, by just fantasizing.
That’s what you’ll tell yourself over and over, to avoid the guilt.
It’s all just a fantasy.
You‘re perfectly professional about it. It’s not Bucky’s fault that he’s so handsome it feels like you shouldn’t be allowed to look at him. You can keep your desire bottled up, keep in the warmest, wettest pits of your stomach. It can seep out between your thighs when it becomes too much to bare. It can breed into itself and spread up into your heart, festering in the dark. But Bucky will never see it. You’ll be good, and you’ll act sane, and that will be it.
He’s been through too much already, to add your insatiable, ardors devotion to his list of problems.
You’ve developed an easy friendship. That’s all you’ll allow yourself to have, all you let yourself think about in his presence. When you’re working on his arm, you don’t think about those big, cold fingers being buried in your pussy until you’re alone in your room. All your daydreams are trapped in your sheets, and your moans absorbed and locked in your pillowcase.
You think about Bucky pinning you down with a warm, splayed hand on your abdomen. About his smirk, as he bullies three metal fingers into your pussy, forcing a perfect stretch before fucking you like a toy. His cold thumb swiping over your clit, sending shivers through your body. His eyes gleaming and attention burning, as he drags out orgasm after orgasm.
That hand would be like having a personal fuck machine, and he’d act like it until the very end. All taunting and teasing until you were spent and limp below him. Then he’d kiss the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the space between your eyes. He’d coo about what a good girl you were for him, and you’d whimper, your voice lost from screaming his name.
“What’re you thinking about?” Bucky says, sitting next to you at the kitchen counter.
You swallow, and shrug meekly. You never feel small around anyone but him, but you’ve never been this lost in anyone but him. It’s a miracle no one’s noticed, how Bucky shows up and suddenly you’re all flushed cheeks and girly giggles. You might as well be twirling your hair and kicking your feet. It’s pathetic. You can’t stop.
“Nothing?” Bucky pushes a little, and you give him a close-lipped, full smile.
“Nope.”
“You looked like you were thinkin’ about something.”
“I wasn’t.” You look back to the sandwich you’d been working on. Bucky keeps staring at you. He always does. “Nothing going on up here, Barnes.”
Bucky’s lips twitch.
The whole world seems brighter, like he’s just like some holy kind of candle.
“I don’t believe that,” he murmurs, and you shrug.
“You don’t have to.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“Good for you.”
“It is, isn’t it,” he chuckles. “I’m gonna love being right.”
You blink, shooting his a sideways look. “Being… Right?”
“I know you’re thinkin’ about something.” He shrugs. “I’ll figure out what.”
Oh. Under no circumstances can he find out what you’re thinking about. “It’s not anything interesting,” you try lamely, and Bucky smirks.
“Ah. So it’s something.”
“I- That’s-“ You sputter. “Why do you even care-“
“I like knowin’ what you’re thinking,” he shrug. “It’s always interesting.”
You blink at him. For some reason, that makes your throat close up, your eyes burning with embarrassing tears. Your knees are wobbling, and you’re sitting down. You grunt and look back to your sandwich, and Bucky chuckles.
“C’mon. Tell me.” He leans closer. There’s a gravity, from his heat, and it makes you want to just collapse over his chest.
You look at him from the corner of your eye, and you won’t tell him. That’s against the rules. It defeats the purpose.
But god, he’s looking at you. Really looking at you. You can count each shade of blue in his eyes. If you move just an inch, your noses might bump.
“I’m hungry,” you whisper, and Bucky’s brow knits.
He looks down to your sandwich. Then back to you. Adorable confusion flashes over his face. “You should… Uh- Eat.”
You nod, and he clears his throat, leaning back. You wish you could grab the collar of his shirt, and drag him back.
“You ever seen this thing called the Princess Bride?” He asks, not touching any food himself.
Just sitting there. With you. You try not to think about it too much.
You nod, chewing on your sandwich with puffed out cheeks. “’S a really good movie-“
“Chew then swallow, doll.” Bucky’s lips twitch, and you flush and obey.
“It’s a good movie,” you mumble, giving him a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”
Bucky shrugs, his gaze dropping to your mouth. Your breath hitches. You go perfectly still, afraid that if you shift, he’ll look away.
His tongue darts over his lips. He tips his head, his forearm flexes as he curls his fingers, and your breathing gets shallow. Something electric has shifted in the air, and it’s making you dizzy. Bucky reaches up slowly, and if you weren’t rooting in place, you think you’d fall out of your chair.
His thumb wipes the spot right above your lips, and a shock rushes through your body. His nostrils flare, his eyes lock onto yours, and his touch lingers.
When he pulls back, the movement is slow. Controlled. Your tongue flicks out, to lick where his thumb had been. Bucky’s nostrils flare.
There’s something on his thumb. Tiny little breadcrumbs that must’ve been stuck to your cheek from the sauce. Bucky brings the finger up to his mouth, holding your gaze, and sucks the crumbs away. Heat pools in your tummy, and your thighs press together.
Bucky stares at you. You grab the edge of your seat with white knuckles, trying to keep yourself from falling off.
“Crumbs,” he mutters, and you nod.
“Yeah.”
“I- Uh-“ He coughs, and looks away. Disappointment sinks like a boulder into your stomach.
You don’t know what you expected. Hell, you’ve told yourself what to expect. You’re not allowed to be disappointed by him. You’re not allowed to want anything from him, except for what your head can offer.
“Sam’s been tryin’ to make me watch it,” he mutters, and you blink.
“What?”
“Princess Bride.”
“Oh.” You’re still a little drunk on his proximity. He smells like something rich and spicy, and it’s fogging up your brain. “Cool.”
Bucky nods. “We’re gonna watch it next Friday. In that common room, where Stark makes us do game nights.” He gives you a sideways look. “I never see you at those.”
You shrug. “I’m not an Avenger.”
“Stark says you get invited.”
You do. But that would be a night of drinking and laughing and being closer to Bucky than you can handle, so you usually lock yourself in your room and pretend he’s fucking you stupid.
“You’re invited to movie night, too.” He adds casually, and you swallow.
Movie night. Where Bucky would be near you. In the dark. You can’t go there. You’ll lose your mind.
But he’s looking at you with such dim, cautious light in his eyes. There’s no expectations. Just hope. And it pulls the words out of you before you can stop them.
“Oh- Okay.”
Bucky beams, and that makes it worth it. The risk, that he might brush your hand in the dark and you’ll moan loud enough for everyone to hear.
He reaches up, and wipes a few more breadcrumbs from your cheeks. Time seems to stop, when he touches you. It’s dangerous, and you barely manage not to fall all over him before he pulls away.
“You get messy,” he mutters, and oh, God.
You shouldn’t have said yes. Why the fuck did you say yes. Now you’re going to have to sit next to him, after that.
You get messy. He has no idea.
That night, you end up back in your bed with a vibrator pressed over your panties. It makes the feeling stronger, with the friction of the fabric, and you toss your head back. It’s easier and easier to get lost in the fantasy, lately. The better you know him, the clearer it gets.
You can almost feel his hands, mapping over the curves and soft dips of your body. You can almost smell him.
He mouths at your breast, pinching and rolls your nipple between metal fingers. You make a broken, pathetic sound, and he smirks.
“I know, doll. Too much, isn’t it?”
You whimper, pressing the vibrator down. Bucky hums, his hand wrapping around yours, and your hips jerk when he angles it to shove right against your clit.
“Too much,” he coos, making out with the softness of your breast. “I’m barely even touchin’, and you’re already about to fuckin’ fall apart for me.”
Your eyes roll back, as Bucky starts to guide the vibrator up and down. Your mouth falls open in a long moan, as he grabs your hips and pushes them higher, further exposing your pussy. He bites at your nipple, then turns his attention to the neglected one. You writhe in the sheets, gasping his name, and he smiles.
“Dirty girl.” He pushes your hand back, just enough for him to rip away your panties, exposing your cunt to the cold air. “Look at that, pretty little pussy fuckin’ shining for me.”
You grind down, trying to find friction on the sheets. Bucky pushes the vibrator against your bare pussy, and your eyes roll back in your head. He starts kissing all over your chest, pawing at your breasts and swirling his tongue around you nipples, sending electric shock through your body. He licks the sensitive buds the same way he licked his thumb. Your hips start to roll mindlessly, as the coil in your stomach threatens to snap.
When you cum, it’s with a cry of his name. The coil snaps, and heat floods out of your pussy, all over the vibrator and your hand. Your body convulses with the sheer force of it, and Bucky kisses down. Over your abdomen, your hips, your inner thighs.
“What a mess, baby.” He mocks, before pressing the sweetest kiss to your clit.
You sob, trembling in the sheets, and grab at his hair.
But your hand finds nothing.
Because it’s just another fantasy, kept in the confines of your mind.
Movie night was a bigger mistake than you could’ve ever imagined.
You show up, and it’s just Bucky and Sam. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch, because men are strange creatures.
“Stevie’s on a mission,” Bucky says, staring at you like he’s seeing an angel. Like he didn’t invite you.
There’s an odd rasp to his voice, too. Maybe he’s just tired.
Sam says your name, that signature, I know something that everyone else doesn’t smirk on his face. You don’t think much if it. He always has it, even when he doesn’t know shit.
“Buck told me you’d be comin’. I didn’t believe him.”
“Sam.” Bucky grunts, and Sam shrugs.
“What? I didn’t.” He grins at you. “You never leave your lab-“
“She leaves her lab.” Bucky gives you an apologetic look, but you just laugh.
“No, he’s right. I really don’t.”
Bucky sighs, rolls his eyes, and pats the seat next to him. You smile to yourself, taking a long breath before you move. You’re going to be normal about this. Very, incredibly normal. So normal, they’ll think something’s wrong, because no one’s ever been this normal in history.
You last ten minutes.
The movie starts. You’ve seen it before, but you try to pay attention to every, tiny detail. The only other option is paying attention to Bucky. To the weight of him at your side, the way his knee brushes against yours and his arm is slung over the back of the couch. You’ve never seen him so relaxed and tense, all at once. He’s sunken into the cushions, but whenever you look over, his jaw is tight.
You could swear you catch his gaze, once or twice. If you do, he looks away immediately. And you feel it, that buzzing heat over your skin. But you’re supposed to be watching the movie. He’s supposed to be watching the movie. So you really, really try not to look over.
Bucky’s knee pushes against yours, and you swallow. His fingers trail near your shoulder, and you wrap your arms around your stomach to suppress the shiver. He’s warm. So fucking warm you can feel it, blooming in your core. You shift in your seat, and you’re already wet.
The movie isn’t even a third of the way done.
Bucky’s fingers rest on your shoulder. It’s so light, so casual, you’re not even sure he knows he’s doing it. You take the risk, and turn to fully look at him. He’s gotten even more relaxed, the knit of his brows loosened, pretty pink lips parted as he watches the TV. You want to reach up, and trace the stubble of his jaw. Maybe kiss up the column of his throat, dig your nails into his pecs and make out with that full, perfect mouth.
You let out a tiny sigh. Bucky doesn’t react to it. Too lost in the movie. Not paying you any mind.
And you should look away. You’re not here to Bucky watch.
You turn your head for three whole seconds, before your eyes start to ache. As if they can’t stand not to look at him. You try to resist it, but it plays over and over, on a loop in your brain. The image of him in the dark. The heat from him, almost penetrating under your skin and making you rise up like a balloon. Your head is in the clouds. You have to look at him.
You close your eyes, trying to fight it. Bucky’s hand drops from your shoulder, down to your upper arm, and your breath hitches.
Your eyes shoot open, and Bucky’s right there. Staring at you, with the same intense, focused need that’s clawing at your ribs and up your throat.
He grabs your chin, between strong but gentle fingers. You swallow, letting your gaze trail down his body. His massive chest, torso that looks perfect to hook your legs around, his thick thighs and his crotch.
The bulge, pushing through his sweats. It looks thick. Long and thick, demanding some attention. You look back to Bucky with your best, doe-eyed pout. He smirks, and leans down to kiss you. It’s slow and deep, his tongue swiping over your lower lip before pushing into your mouth. You moan, and Bucky weaves his hair through your hair, tugging slightly. Your second moan is downright pathetic. You grab his thigh, letting your nails brush against the outline of his cock.
Bucky hisses against your lips, and pulls back. You bat your lashes at him, and his lips twitch.
“Messy girl,” he mutters, before pressing a sweeter, mocking kiss to your lips.
He pulls away too quickly, but before you can give chase, you’re lost in a daze. Bucky’s pulling down his pants, taking his boxers with him. His cock springs free, thick and veiny, massive even in his own hand. He strokes himself slowly, giving you a prompting, amused look. You swallow, licking your lips.
“C’mon, doll,” he beckons. “Show me what you can do.”
Almost in a trance, you nod. Bucky’s eyes darken, as you crawl over his lap. You move his hand away, and fist his cock in one hand. He grabs the back of your neck, not to push, but for balance. A low, guttural sound rolls through his chest as you start to pump him, and you smile to yourself.
He really is perfect. A heavy, certain weight in your hand, jumping slightly whenever you squeeze him near the base. You shift back on your knees, using your other hand to massage his balls. He hisses, his grip tightening on your neck, and you smile.
When you look at him, there’s nothing but pure devotion in his gaze. You squeeze again, then pick up your pace, and he groans out your name.
You kiss him, pushing his head back against the couch cushions. He grunts, but lets you guide him. As if he knows that it’s all just a show, before you let him fuck your face like an animal.
“Relax, baby,” you breathe against his lips.
Bucky lets out a deep, rough laugh. “Little hard to do that right now.”
You giggle, swiping your thumb over the slit of his cock. “Is it? Hard?”
Bucky groans, and deepens the kiss. You slide off of him, before he can just grab your hips, pick you up, and sit you on his dick.
You move back, lowering down to your stomach so you’re eye level with his dick. He’s pulsing in your hands, trying to hold himself back. You don’t want him to. You want him to cum everywhere. Down your throat and over your face and tits, claiming you in one of the most primal ways possible.
“Doll…” Bucky rasps, and you look up at him under hooded eyes. He’s a wrecked. Bulging muscles and sweat, slicking on his brow. “Don’t tease- Jesus-“
You wrap your mouth around him, and take him as deep as you can go. He bumps against the back of your throat, but you suppress your gag reflex, relaxing to try and get even more. Your nose brushes against the hair at base of him. Your tongue presses flat against Bucky’s shaft, your fingers still working his balls, and he fists his hand in your hair.
“So- So fuckin’ warm-“ He chokes out. “Holy- You’re somethin’, sweetheart- God-“
You hum, and Bucky’s hips jerk up. He stutters out an apology, but you just moan again. He tries to pull you off, muttering more apologies, and you dig your nails into his thigh. You want it. You want him to use you.
He gets it, after a moment. His grip on your hair tightens. He starts slow, jerking his hips up as he pushes you a little further down, before yanking you back. You moan around his cock, drool falling from your swallow lips. Your eyes roll back. He’s using you, god, he’s using you, and it’s the best fucking thing in the world.
Bucky fucks your face like a fleshlight, and you grind your ass up against nothing. He hits the back of your throat, over and over, salty and heavy on your tongue. The sounds he makes are beautiful and sinful, and-
“Something on my face, doll?”
You blink, and Bucky’s cock isn’t in your mouth anymore. You smack your lips, trying to find it. Bucky frowns at you, the light of the movie making him even more, impossibly handsome. Sam ignores you both, popcorn stuffed in his mouth.
Bucky looks worried. He said something.
“Hm?”
“You were, you were- Uh-“ He clears his throat, then shakes his head. “Never mind.”
He looks back to the TV, and your face burns. His thigh is pressed right against yours. You can swear, when you lick your lips, you can still taste his dick.
You’re so, so fucked.
It only gets worse.
Eating breakfast becomes a trial, because Bucky is always there, and you’re always thinking about his fingers while he eats. How they’d feel stuffed down your throat, gripping your hips, scissoring deep inside of you. He wipes cream cheese off your cheek, and you almost moan.
“You feelin’ alright?” Bucky says, always so caring and worried, and you nod weakly.
“Yeah. Just- Just tired.”
He looks at you like he doesn’t believe you, but lets it go. If you were smarter, you’d be avoiding him. But you’re not. And you still have to work with him, anyway. It makes avoiding him rather impossible.
For a while you cling onto the idea that work would be sacred. That while Bucky’s in your office and you’re examining his arm, it’s purely professional. Not a single dirty thought.
You last about a week, with that one. Bucky startles you walking in. You trip, and he catches you around your waist.
“Careful,” he smiles down at you, all handsome and stupid.
“Uh huh,” you breathe out, and you could’ve sworn a flood gushed out between your legs.
Bucky’s nostrils had flared, and he’d helped you up to your seat. You’d already had the new fantasy, blooming in your mind like the little fucking pervert that you were. You’d tried to shove it down, swaying in the middle of the room, but then you’d looked at him. Sitting with his legs spread in your chair. And you’d been lost.
You imagined climbing into his lap. His arm wrapping around you as you sat down on his cock, grinding slowly, lashes flutters as he kneaded and pulled at your hips and breasts. He’d stand up, taking you with him like you weighed nothing, and pin you to the wall. One arm would stay around you, holding you in place as his mouth started to explore your dripping cunt.
His tongue would work you open, pushing in and out of your pussy. He would’ve already cum inside of you, and every stroke of his tongue would send a wave of your mixed arousals over his beard. You’d watch him, moaning his name, and his thumb would bully and flick and tease your clit, until your were dazed and gasping for air and-
Bucky says your name, and you could slap yourself. This is getting out of hand.
“Sorry,” you mumble, sitting next to him. He smiles at you, so kind.
Always so kind.
“You’ve been kinda out of it, lately.” His words are casual. You still daydream about shooting yourself and running away.
“Just getting lost in thought,” you murmur, and he hums.
“Anything I can help with?”
You shake your head, because if you speak you’ll start begging. Please, please, please, he’s the only one who can help you, you’re going insane with how much you need him, and he could save you, he could really save you-
“Movin’ usually helps me.” He offers softly. You almost don’t hear him. “Y’know. Using my body. Remembering that it’s mine.”
“Yeah?” You say softly, cleaning the panel near his shoulder. He looks at you, and you risk looking back.
You can’t read that expression. You’re not sure you want to.
“Yeah,” he mutters. His gaze might flick down to your lips, but you don’t trust your own mind anymore. “You wanna try it with me? I head to that gym in the basement every night. It ain’t bad.”
And you should say no, but you can’t help it. You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch, and God, what you won’t do just so he smiles.
You will torture yourself, apparently. Bucky’s too hot to be allowed in a gym. Wearing a tank top that shows off his massive arms, smiling at you all lazy, in the way that’s more of a guard than the slip that you always crave, but a smile all the same.
First, you try walking on the treadmill and just watching him the mirror. He’s lifting weights, and his arms, they should be classified as weapons. You want those biceps keeping you in a head lock, against his chest or at his side. Keeping you still, while his cock pounds relentlessly into your pussy.
Bucky meets your gaze in the mirror. His lips twitch, and you look away, face burning.
You feel him, more than you see him coming over. The gravity of his presence, you think you’d be able to feel him blindfolded and dropped in a crowd of a million people.
“Come on,” he offers you a hand. “Lemme show you something.”
And you can’t say no to him. You really should learn how.
Because the something is training. Wrestling. Throwing fucking punches and trying to get the other down.
“Bucky, I can’t-“
“Yeah, you can.” He raises his fists, nodding to your own. “Up, doll.”
You sigh, raising them slowly. “You’re going to kick my ass-“
“I am. And then you’re going to get better.”
You scoff—he’s ridiculous—but listen. Bucky smirks, and lunges. You yelp and try to scramble away, but he’s too fast. You’re pinned under him in seconds, whacking at his arms and wiggling.
“Bucky- Get off-“
He laughs, standing up with a proud grin. You’ve never seen him so relaxed, so confident. It makes you hornier than you ever could’ve imagined.
He’d been over you. Everywhere over you. Pinning you down and manhandling you, and- Oh God-‘
“Up,” he beckons, and you swallow.
“I- I don’t know-“
“Yeah, you do.” He gives you a playful smile. “Get up.”
You sigh, and scramble to your feet. Bucky raises his fists again. You narrow your eyes, and match.
He chuckles. “Getting competitive?”
You shrug. “You wanted me to.”
Something flashes in his eyes. You’re not sure how to read into it.
“Damn right I do,” his voice is lower. You’re not imagining that.
You don’t get time to think about it, before he’s moving again. You hold your own exactly a second longer than before, but it ends the exact same way. You, pinned under Bucky’s broad, strong body. His face is pressed near your breasts, his fingers digging into your hips, his legs shoving yours apart to stop you from flailing around.
It goes on longer than it shoulder. This strange game that you like playing more than you should. Bucky starts trying to properly get you to throw a punch, but he gives up fast. Soon you’re more play wrestling than doing anything else. You’re giggly and dazed, charging at him like a bull, and he acts as bored and collected as always, but you can see the amusement dancing in his eyes, every time you try to climb him like a tree.
Then something shifts.
He gets you beneath him, and you try to shove at his chest. He catches your wrists and pins them up over your head. Your breath hitches, and he blinks. His hips drop against yours, and you can feel it. The bulge of his cock, pressing into your core.
He’s hard.
Not fully, but enough. Enough that you can imagine every ridged and curve of him, sliding between the puffy lips of your pussy. Your thighs clench, and Bucky grunts, rutting forward.
You both freeze, and your eyes lock. It’s one of those seconds, where you just stare hopelessly at each other. You almost apologize, but your tongue is limp. Bucky’s face is redder than you’ve ever seen it. His cock twitches in his pants.
And this isn’t a dream or fantasy. Bucky mutters your name, and it’s so real you think your heart might pound of your chest.
Bucky moves first. He clears his throat and moves to his feet.
“Better.” He offers you a hand. “That was…”
He trails off. You stare at each other, lost for words.
Bucky turns, and leaves without another word. You sway in the center of the room, breathing shallow, head spinning.
What the fuck just happened.
Bucky kisses up your spine, his mouth hot and possessive. His tongue flicks against your neck, and his fingers dig into your hips. He drags your ass up in the air and you mewl, pressing your face into the sheets.
“Ah,” he scolds, slapping your soaked, swollen pussy. “Lemme hear you, doll.”
You turn your head, moaning loud and shamelessly. Bucky chuckles, kissing a soft spot on your neck.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, notching his cock against your entrance. “Good girl.”
You coo like a baby bird, flushed and dazed. He’s big, so big that it almost hurts. He doubles over you with a groan, pressing his face into your shoulder as he slowly pushes every inch inside of you. The stretch burns in the best way, and you clench down around him.
“No,” Bucky leans down, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Nothin’ to apologize for. Just gotta relax, babydoll. Lemme do the rest.”
You hum, and take a deep breath. You’re grounded, in the feeling of Bucky everywhere. His warmer arm wraps around your neck, forcing you up enough for his lips to trail open kisses over your face.
“That’s my girl,” he mutters against your ear, bottoming fully out. “That’s it. Just take it for me, just like that.”
You mewl, pushing your ass back up, then crying out with delight as Bucky pulls out, and slams back in. He’s met with no resistance, from how your pussy is gushing out with every thrust, every touch, every hot kiss.
But there’s nothing else to be expected. Not with how Bucky’s using you, how worshipful his every touch and kiss is, all while he fucks into you so hard you think the bed is going to break. His breath is hot on your back, the head of his cock drill against that one, gooey spot deep inside you. His cold arm locks around your middle, and his fingers tease and graze over your clit. Rubbing in tight little circles, making your eyes roll back in your head.
Bucky grunts, hauling you up so you’re pressed against his chest. You’re pinned down on his cock now, wet and warm and tight. So fucking tight that it pulls a low, rumbling moan from his chest. His hips slam up in a barely controlled rhythm, chasing more of your heat. You’re limp in his arms. Dazed and smiling like you’re drunk. Bucky uses his arm around your neck to push your head further back, and you have the nerve to fucking giggle.
You’re so beautiful like this that he almost cums right there. Fluttering lashes and the sweetest sounds, you pussy milking him like a machine. He kisses you because he can’t help it, and you hum happily, grinding your ass down into him.
He needs you to cum first. He gropes at your clit, letting his fingers fumble for a second to work you up into a teased, messy frenzy, before he pushes down and rubs in a steady, unyielding rhythm. You cry out his name, squeezing down so hard on his cock, and Bucky buries his face in your neck.
He cums, so hard that his vision goes white. Thick ropes of cum spurt over his hand, squeezing hard at the base of his cock.
It’s not as warm as you’d be, he thinks.
And he thinks. All the time, Bucky just thinks about you. About how you’d feel, molding around him. About how you’d sound right in his ear, how you’d get smiley and drool, and he’s feed you his fingers just so you have something to do with that pretty mouth. You’d moan around them, and he’d thrust up into you so hard he’d knock the damn worries out of your head.
It’s his favorite time of the day, this. Your rooms are closer than you seem to think, or you just forget how good his hearing is.
And every night, right before bed, he gets to settle into the mattress and beat his cock into his hand, listening to you moan and call his name. He’d never tell you. You deserve better, than a broken robot like him. He counts himself lucky he even gets to be your friend, because he’s a man well practiced at restraint. At not getting what he wants.
But this space, where no one can see, he allows himself things. He allows himself you.
But only ever in his head.
✦End note: this might be one of my fave bucky fics i just got to be soooo horny with it✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
imagine being a sweet shy interviewer who's interviewing babe, literally anyone, celeb au, whatever, and he is making it hard for you to work, cus he's just making filthy eye contact, flirting and overall enjoying how flustered you get.🥺😁 and then dragging you to show him how you really affect him.
like,.... ahhhh, if you wanna write something like this, it'll be so much fun, ❤️❤️
Ooooh thank you so much for your ask!!!
I saw your other ask linked to this about 40s Bucky and it got me thinking of a documentarian reader (if that's the right words??) so I hope this does your ask justice!!
Wandering Eyes
40s!Commando!Bucky x f!documentarian!reader
18+. I do not give permission for my work to be reposted, copied, translated or put through an AI machine. Not beta'd.
Tags/warnings: smut, dog tags mention, p-in-v, outdoor sex, semi-public sex, sex against a tree, dirty talk (v brief), Bucku being a bit of a womaniser (but we love it), pull out method, doggy
Summary: you make an attempt to interview one of the Howling Commandos... but he has other things in his mind.
Word count: 776
Navigation | Bucky Masterlist
You were supposed to be interviewing the Howling Commandos as part of a documentary on the war and Captain America, however, one Commando in particular was proving to be hard to interview. Not because he wasn't chatty or grumpy, but rather the opposite; he couldn't stop flirting with you.
James 'Bucky' Buchanan Barnes had had his eyes glued to you ever since you sat down in the director chair opposite him. It was off-putting to say the least, moreso with his flirtatious comments that had you going red in the face and shifting every so often. His eyes follow your hands to your skirt - straight cut pencil skirt that was just a tad too tight for your liking - and watched you smooth out an imaginary crease. Your eyes meet as you raise your head again and he smiles, all teeth and charm, making you stammer out your next question.
"Erm, um, h-how have you managed, um, to uh - keep yourself entert-tained?"
You inwardly curse as you watch his eyes light up.
"Thinkin' of pretty dames like you, doll." Bucky replies with a wink. "Can't keep my mind from… wandering."
His gaze drops to your skirt again on the last word and you immediately cut the tape. You dont know how much of this interview would be usable but you're too flustered to care.
"I think that's enough for today. Thank you Sargeant Barnes." You try to manage a friendly smile but you can feel your cheeks burning.
Bucky is up quickly, offering you a hand out of your chair. It's silly considering how he'd just been undressing you with his eyes and shamelessly flirting with you for nearly an hour and now is acting the gentleman. Yet it still almost makes your knees buckle as you get pulled flush against him.
"Anytime, doll." He purrs, another charming smile inching onto his face. He still hasn't let go of your hand and you swallow thickly. "How's about we find a quiet place where I can tell you some things off-record?"
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"Fuck - do you know how pretty you looked gettin' all flustered for me?" Bucky grunts, rutting into you from behind.
His idea of "someplace quiet" was a little further out from the camp than you'd expected but away from prying eyes and sharp ears that would have heard you moaning like a whore in his cot quite easily. At least further out, you could be a little louder.
You claw at the bark of the tree you had half hidden behind, barely holding yourself up with the force Bucky was fucking you with. The metal clinks of his dog tags rang in your ears, matching each thrust and you whine out a half sob as your cunt grips his cock nice and tight.
"S-Sarge!"
"You gonna cum, sweetheart?" Bucky pants, gripping your hips tighter for two more deep thrusts that you already know will leave you aching tomorrow before pulling out, spinning you around, hoisting your legs under his arms and burying himself to the hilt again. His blue eyes fixate on yours, sweat shining on his face as he manages - somehow - another dashing smile.
"Let me see that pretty face cum."
Cursing his name, you comply to his request. You pant and huff as he chases his own high, your body acting of its own accord as you pull him by the dog tags for a messy kiss as you cum again. It's not long after that though, that Bucky's hips stutter and his thrusts slow, cock twitching as he pulls out of your soaked cunt and cums along your thighs.
However, Bucky trails open kisses along your face and neck, trapping you against him as you both come back down from your respective peaks. You feel his spend inch down your thighs and onto your stockings and let loose a shaky sigh.
"We should probably head back before people realise we're gone." You say shyly, biting your lip to hide a smile, cheeks still flush.
"Or," Bucky grins down at you. "We stay out in the woods and fuck like animals all night?"
"Bucky!" You squeal and attempt to hide your face in his chest but he doesn't let you, forcing you to look at him every time you try to look away by mirroring the movement of your face.
"Ah, ah, ah doll. Don't go all shy on me now." He teases with a kiss to your nose. "Show me all those pretty faces you make."
Somehow, Bucky's powers of persuasion manage to convince you to stay out until dusk; and you barely manage to sneak him into your tent without waking anyone else.
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Week 1 Entry for @writer-in-a-cryofreeze Drabble Event - Find All My Entries Here
Prompt - First Meetings
Pairing - Bucky Barnes x Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Summary - Bucky has a very cold first meeting with Steve Rogers
Warnings - Suggestive Language. That's about it.
Word Count - 100
Bucky was furious, looking down at his chest in horror as the ice cold substance dripped down his shirt, but when he looked up at the culprit, sheepishly holding his cone with a blush on his cheeks, Bucky couldn't find it in him to stay mad.
"Gosh, I'm so sorry." The small blonde man sputtered embarrassed.
Bucky didn't think he'd ever seen a man so beautiful as he looked into the blonde man's deep blue eyes.
He slowly swiped his finger along his chest before popping the sticky sweet treat into his mouth with a seductive smirk.
One of our recently frozen authors has started posting her drabbles from our current event! If you enjoyed this little ice-cream inspired meet-cute between Bucky and Steve, please like, reply and reblog to let Micki know! ❤️❤️❤️
Welcome back to another fun-filled week at Writer in a Cryofreeze! We have nine nifty drabbles for you today, all written to the following prompt:
This Will Not Happen in Doomsday!
That's right, folks--take all the spoilers you may or may not have read about the upcoming Avengers movie and throw 'em out the window, because this week, it's about what WON'T happen!
Once again we have a split post today: eight amazing drabbles are rated General Audiences and can be found below the cut. One sexy explicit drabble has been posted on its own over here. Be sure to read as many drabbles as you are able and feel comfortable reading before voting.
YOUR JOB is to vote for up to TWO of your favorite drabbles. Voting will be open until about 4pm NY time on Friday afternoon. The two authors of the drabbles with the fewest votes will get their own shiny Cryofreeze, from which they can watch the premier of the movie when it's finally released!
Ready to read? FANTASTIC (four, that is)!!!
Thanks for reading!
Drabble #1 - Hope
Rating: General Audiences
The battle ended without fanfare. No portal in the sky, no impossible odds, no incursions. The multiverse was safe.
Weeks later Bucky was at an animal shelter, standing in front of a white kitten in the cage.
Retirement wasn’t what he’d expected. He imagined boredom, restlessness. His days became wonderfully ordinary: coffee, aimless walks, reading, sitting with Alpine on the balcony, watching the sunset.
He started imagining a different future: go back to school, reelection.
Perhaps, settle down, start a family.
It felt unbelievable. The universe had stopped asking from him or taking from him.
Bucky was allowed to live.
🚫
Drabble #2 - Shots Fired
Rating: General Audiences
"This is stupid!" Sam yelled, waving his gun in the air.
"The games the game." Bucky chuffed with a smirk.
"You're the one who suggested this." Yelena chuckled alongside Bucky.
"Yeah a nice normal game of Lazer tag. Not Lazer tag with the world's best assassin!" Sam continued.
"Look man," Joaquin huffed as he joined Sam's side, "Maybe we just call it quits, we've gone 5 rounds, we keep losing."
"No we go again." Sam replied sternly, pointing at Bucky with narrowed eyes, "You, left hand only."
"Fine by me." Bucky grinned before jogging back into the darkened zone laughing.
🚫
Drabble #3 – Do This All Day?
Rating: General Audiences
Sam laughed once humorless. “Trust? Don’t start with me on trust, Buck. I had to hear about your new team from the evening news.”
“That’s not what happened.” Bucky groaned
“No? ’Cause it sure as hell felt like it.” Sam's tone cold.
Bucky stepped closer, jaw tight. “They have information. Information that can help.”
Sam opened his mouth, anger ready.
Another voice beat him to it.
“You two gonna do this all day?”
Everything in Bucky locked up. He turned too fast, breath catching painfully.
Steve stood there, steady and impossible.
For one stunned second, Bucky only stared. Disbelieving.
“Steve?”
🚫
Drabble #4 - Doomsday, Declined
Rating: General Audiences
Bucky is trying, with effort, to understand a tax-credit rider. It’s not going well, but it is going privately, which seems important.
You’re halfway through explaining depreciation when his phone rings.
YELENA BELOVA
Decline.
Again.
Decline.
YELENA: Stop being dramatic. Is only maybe end of world.
Swipe.
SAM: don’t be like this.
His jaw shifts.
Swipe.
DEADPOOL: Winter grandpa, Kevin says assemble.
Swipe.
You lower the bill.
“James.”
“No.”
“Could be important.”
“It’s always important.” Bucky’s phone flips facedown. “I’ve appeared in every MCU phase. The other guy who managed that turned into a tree. Let me legislate in peace.”
🚫
Drabble #5 - Apocalypse Meow
Rating: General Audiences
Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Steve, preparing to face the end of the world was familiar. Everything after that was not.
“That was anticlimactic,” Steve said.
“They can’t all be Thanos,” Bucky agreed.
“Hardly worth coming out of retirement. This happen a lot since I left?”
“Fury’s cat’s saved the day before, but it’s a first for Alpine.” After a beat, Bucky added defensively, “She’s still a kitten.”
Kitten or not, her purrs almost drowned out Doom’s booming admiration while he pet her rather than lay waste to the world.
“Come on, Steve. Fight’s back on if I can’t rescue my cat!”
🚫
Drabble #6 - Them
Rating: General Audiences
The ozone on his tongue was sharp and growing sharper by the second.
Something was wrong.
More than the battle chaos amidst the ruins of the Stark Expo grounds.
Bucky turned slowly, surveying his surroundings.
Then he saw them.
Each wore his face but not his history. One in a crisp, white uniform from some alternate century, a stillness to him like a wolf that knew every trick in the book and didn’t need to snarl. The other a grizzled wreck: gray at the temples, sleep deprivation tattooed under his eyes. Both sported the arm—his arm, that ugly, magnificent thing.
🚫
Drabble #7 – Tumblr to the Rescue
Rating: General Audiences
He was dying. Fine. He'd done it before.
Then the portal opened. Blue. Tumbling. Chaos shaped like small circular portraits of strangers, cats, anime characters, and— unsettlingly— him. Long hair. Short hair. One arm. Two. Smiling, something he didn't remember doing.
One handed him a juice box.
Bucky stared at it. Stared at himself, multiplied, in eras he couldn't fully account for.
"This," announced an icon of a small white blue-eyed cat, "will not happen in Doomsday."
He had no idea what that meant.
Something about the cat felt familiar. He couldn't place it.
He drank the juice box anyway.
🚫
Drabble #8 – Fix It
Rating: General Audiences
Bucky sheathed his knife when you walked in.
“Bucky,” you began softly. “What are you doing?”
“I’m gonna make the writers fix it.”
“Fix what exactly?”
“Everything,” he answered through his teeth. “Like Natasha dying.”
“Bucky…”
“And Steve’s ending.”
“Bucky.”
“And Sam and I being on the outs again.”
“Bucky!”
He paused to look at you.
“You can’t fix it,” you whispered. “You’re not supposed to be aware that you’re in a movie, and I shouldn’t even be here.”
He blinked, confused. “Then… what do I do?”
You smiled. “Leave it to the fanfiction writers. They’ll know what to do.”
🚫
That's all the General Audience drabbles for today!
Be sure to read the Explicit Drabble if you haven't already.
Otherwise, please head over to the voting poll to choose your two favorite drabbles.
Check back on Friday afternoon for the author reveal, and thanks for reading!
Pairing: Din Djarin x reader/The Mandalorian x reader (ft Grogu)
Word Count: 300
Summary: Mando is ready to move on and live a life he's only ever dreamed of (just a little moment of domestic bliss)
Author's Note: This is for June 13th of @societynsoelsscribbles June Jukebox Scribbles and the song: 'Town Without Pity' by Gene Pitney and the lyric: "Only those in love could know." Thank you beauties for hosting and thank you all so much for reading and sharing! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰
Warnings: it's soft and fluffy and domestic and full of hope and sweetness (and seashells)
June Jukebox Scribbles Masterlist
“Is this it? You’re really done?”
Mando’s gaze is glued to you and Grogu, both searching for shells down by the shoreline.
“I’ve got better places to be,” he finally says in answer to Colonel Ward.
“And you’re sure?”
“Yes,” he says, voice deep with certainty.
She smiles, following his line of sight. “Only those in love could know,” she muses, patting him on the shoulder before walking back toward Adelphi’s outpost. “But if you ever change your mind…you know where to find me.”
Mando nods in understanding and then presses a code into the console on his gauntlet, launching himself over the cliffs toward the beach.
Soft lips press against your neck, right over your fluttering pulse. Pleasure blooms from that point through your whole body and a broad hand spreads across your stomach, pressing you flush against the Mandalorian as he breathes you in.
“You’re going to get sand in your armor,” you tease.
“Worth it,” he replies as he looks over your shoulder at the shells in your hand, lifting it to his mouth to kiss each fingertip.
“Grogu found the best ones,” you say, watching him pluck several from the wet sand using the force.
“He’s cheating,” Mando declares and you feel his lips spread into a smile along your skin.
When Grogu spots Mando he waddles over as quickly as his little legs go and presents his collection of shells.
“Great job Buddy,” Mando says. “Now, what do you say to some dinner?”
Grogu nods enthusiastically and hops into your arms. Mando turns and slides his helmet back on. “Hold on tight,” he says as you wrap yourself around him.
He blasts off, making it a quick ride back to the Razor Crest.
“No cookies until after dinner!” he says to Grogu once you land.
2087
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