Fiyero Tigelaar's Foolproof Plan For How to Get A Gorgeous Green Witch to Fall In Love With You:
Almost run her over with your Horse and then charmingly apologize after
Contrive some kind of festivity or occasion where you can showcase your key strengths (i.e. dancing on tables, shelf acrobatics, looking handsome - always on)
Figure out ways to showcase your other key assets (i.e. flop hair carelessly in front of her in odd occasions, take off shirt whenever possible, etc.)
Find out what she cares about. Learn that you care about it, too.
Get her to a private, secluded, romantic location for a little heart to heart.
Try to eliminate layers of clothing as soon as you can. Showcase how strong and veiny your fore-arms are. Girls love those.
Try not to be too shocked when you realize she can read you like a book.
Run away to safety. Stay.
Resolve to tell her how you feel.
Support her on her big day. Give her a token that shows her how you feel. Make sure it is something explicit, like a letter. Not something vague, like a flower......................
If she runs away or goes off into hiding, do everything in your power to find her. EVERYTHING.
No sacrifice is too great to keep her safe.
The water rumor is disgusting and utterly stupid, but it has its benefits. Use it to your advantage.
Maybe don't go through with getting married to someone you don't even love.
When you see her again, make sure you don't lose her. Make sure she never doubts that you will choose her, over and over again. Over everything else.
She has been living a solitary life, thinking she was alone in her suffering. Make sure she never feels alone ever again.
Do everything you can to let her see her how beautiful she is.
Get over your fear of heights.
Don't let her fight alone.
If necessary, lay down your life for her. Hope she can read in your eyes how much you love her. Pray that she will never be in danger again.
When you wake up, and you don't feel the bones in your body, when you wake up and you realize you cannot breathe, when you wake up and the heart that had been beating for her is no longer beating, realize you never needed any of those things to love and protect her anyway.
You have only one mission now. Find her. Protect her. Keep her safe always. (You've owed her your life even then. What is one more debt to pay?)
Here is a tiny exerpt of the fanfic I am attempting to write. This is the first time I've ever tried to do this so the formatting may not be right. This takes place after Fiyero and Elphaba leave his castle and then Oz and are walking through the desert. While they walk they are having some cute conversations. This is one of them.
Fiyero: I know you are very independent and used to doing everything on your own but you aren’t alone anymore. You have me. Forever and always i am here to help you in any way you need. I love you Elphaba. I’ve loved you since the first night I almost ran you over with Feldspur.
Elphaba: No..I was so mean to you…I don’t believe that..
Fiyero: I know but you were the first person who ever put me in my place….unlike everyone else that just fawned over me because i am a prince.
Elphaba: Well I had no idea who you were…I didn’t even know there were princes that were in Oz…i was always hidden away and never told about the royals of Oz.
Fiyero: It’s okay. We’re together now. And okay maybe I wasn’t in love with you after that day but you very much intrigued me.
And then I tried to wave at you in the library and you just rolled your eyes at me. I started singing in the library and it was weird no librarian even cared or kicked us out. I kept looking over at you to see if you noticed what i was doing and then you just left…..
Elphaba: uhmm I was trying to study you know in the library like normal students…how could I do that with all that racket?
Fiyero: You need to learn to not be so serious.
Anyway after I walked you and Galinda home after the Oz fest I was so enamored by your dance and what you did. I couldn’t stop thinking about it or you...
Okay, so I decided to write a little something because after I made this post I decided that I needed to see this man give in to his little crush. So I hope you like whatever this is I just came up with! I used a combination of the deleted scene and the scene in the film for this.
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An Interlude in the Woods - A Fiyeraba One-Shot
Word Count: 1188
[Synopsis: Alone in the woods with the Lion cub, tensions are heightened which leans to confessions being made and changes being set into motion.
OR:
When Elphaba begins her rambling, Fiyero finds a much more creative way in which to shut her up]
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“So,” He said, glancing this way and that at the woodland around him when the path suddenly separated off, the Lion cub still tucked safely beneath his jacket. “We could go this way…or we could go this way.”
“Don’t squeeze him.” She replied, completely ignoring what he’d just said.
“I’m not,” He frowned just as the cub began to stir against his chest, meowling quietly. “Oh, I think he’s waking up.”
She rolled her eyes. “We can’t just let him loose anywhere. We’ve got to find someplace safe.”
“Yeah, I realize that,” He retorted, turning back to her. “You think I’m really stupid, don’t you?”
“No, not really stupid,” She scoffed right before the cub began to squirm, tucked beneath one of his arms, and she watched as he stumbled and fell to the ground right in front of her when one of its claws caught him. He righted himself again almost instantly, and she took a step closer to him in an attempt to settle the cub as he began to wriggle against his chest again in an attempt to get free. “Alright, um, just can…can you stop?”
“Ow. He’s wriggling He’s a wriggler.”
“He’s wriggling because you’re holding him the wrong way. Stay still! Breathe.”
He had to bite his tongue, but he did as he was told and took a deep breath to calm himself down.
“Thank you,” She said before turning her attention back to the cub and reaching out to stroke its face gently with the back of her hand. Almost immediately, it began to relax and she smiled when it nuzzled against her. She eased it carefully out of his hold and into her own, continuing to speak quietly to it so as not to traumatize it any more than it already had been, and when it settled she glanced up at him again with a smirk. “See?”
He rolled his eyes as she stepped around him and began to walk off towards the river with the cub in her arms, but he was unable to keep the smile from playing at the corner of his mouth.
This was a side to her that he hadn’t seen until now.
This softer, tenderer side.
And, he had to admit, he was a big fan of it.
“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” He heard her say as he made his way up behind her. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Removing his jacket, he tossed it onto the ground and begun unbuttoning the cuffs on his sleeves. “Why is it you’re always causing some sort of commotion?”
“I don’t cause commotions—I am one.” She told him, her back to him as she knelt there on the ground.
“Yeah,” He replied. “Well, that’s for sure.
She was quiet for a brief moment and then: “So you think I should just keep my mouth shut, is that what you’re saying?”
There it was. That defensiveness again.
He frowned. “What? No. No, I’m saying—”
“You think I want to be this way?”
“I—”
“You think I want to care this much?”
“No, I mean—”
“I know that my life would be much easier if I didn’t care, but—”
Before she could even finish her sentence—before his brain had been given so much as a second to catch up—he found himself walking in her direction, his legs moving of their own accord, and before he was able to stop himself he was catching both of them completely off guard by taking her face in his hands and pressing his lips against hers. He had no idea what he was doing. He knew he should stop—he knew that he should just grab the Lion cub and get it to safety, purely to create some space between them if nothing more—but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. Her skin was so warm and her lips were so soft and he only found himself losing himself deeper in her with every second that passed. He was certain that she would shove him off any second and she would have been well within her rights to do so, but instead? She surprised him once again.
Instead of pushing him away and slapping him as he’d been expecting her to, she sighed into his mouth as she slowly began to relax into the kiss. He felt her take a step closer to him so that there chests were almost touching, and when she brought her hands to his waist through his shirt he began walking her backwards on instinct. Her back eventually came into contact with the trunk of one of the trees surrounding them, and he found himself burying the fingers of one hand in her hair as his mouth moved almost lazily over her own, his nails scraping against her scalp in a way that made her moan gently as she arched into him. The sound was enough to break through the spell that had fallen over him, and he pulled away from her—though their faces were still close enough that he could feel her warm breath puffing against his face as she looked up at him.
“Wh—”
“You’re right,” It was his turn to interrupt, the words leaving him as a breath as he touched his forehead to hers. “Your life would be much easier if you didn’t care so much. But then…but then you wouldn’t be you. And I love that part of you the most. The part of you that cares more about…well, everything…more than anyone else I know. Are you infuriating? Yes. Do you drive me mad? Oz, yes. But I wouldn’t have you any other way.”
For a moment, she was silent, still trying to get some control over her breathing as she stood there between him and the trunk of the tree, but finally she managed to find words. “I—I don’t know what to say, I…”
“You don’t need to say anything,” He shook his head, running the back of a hand tenderly down her cheek and smiling when her eyes fell closed. “Let’s just get this cub to safety first, yeah? We’ll deal with the rest later.”
Smiling, she gave him a little nod before he pressed one final kiss to her lips and moved away from her to go and pick up the Lion cub again. He tucked it carefully back beneath his jacket and began walking deeper into the woods, and she found herself following behind him once more as she ran a hand through her hair. This was going to be complicated, she knew. He was involved with Galinda. She was convinced they were going to get married and live happily ever after like they did in those far-fetched fairytales she’d read as a child, but something told her that that wasn’t going to be the case. Not if Fiyero had any say in the matter.
Something told her that things were going to go in a different direction to the one she had in mind.
They were going to go in a different direction entirely…
Fiyero Tigelaar's Foolproof Plan For How to Get A Gorgeous Green Witch to Fall In Love With You:
Almost run her over with your Horse and then charmingly apologize after
Contrive some kind of festivity or occasion where you can showcase your key strengths (i.e. dancing on tables, shelf acrobatics, looking handsome - always on)
Figure out ways to showcase your other key assets (i.e. flop hair carelessly in front of her in odd occasions, take off shirt whenever possible, etc.)
Find out what she cares about. Learn that you care about it, too.
Get her to a private, secluded, romantic location for a little heart to heart.
Try to eliminate layers of clothing as soon as you can. Showcase how strong and veiny your fore-arms are. Girls love those.
Try not to be too shocked when you realize she can read you like a book.
Run away to safety. Stay.
Resolve to tell her how you feel.
Support her on her big day. Give her a token that shows her how you feel. Make sure it is something explicit, like a letter. Not something vague, like a flower......................
If she runs away or goes off into hiding, do everything in your power to find her. EVERYTHING.
No sacrifice is too great to keep her safe.
The water rumor is disgusting and utterly stupid, but it has its benefits. Use it to your advantage.
Maybe don't go through with getting married to someone you don't even love.
When you see her again, make sure you don't lose her. Make sure she never doubts that you will choose her, over and over again. Over everything else.
She has been living a solitary life, thinking she was alone in her suffering. Make sure she never feels alone ever again.
Do everything you can to let her see her how beautiful she is.
Get over your fear of heights.
Don't let her fight alone.
If necessary, lay down your life for her. Hope she can read in your eyes how much you love her. Pray that she will never be in danger again.
When you wake up, and you don't feel the bones in your body, when you wake up and you realize you cannot breathe, when you wake up and the heart that had been beating for her is no longer beating, realize you never needed any of those things to love and protect her anyway.
You have only one mission now. Find her. Protect her. Keep her safe always. (You've owed her your life even then. What is one more debt to pay?)
Thinking about THIs frame ..right here...and I'm attacked by all the feels ...like what do you mean he is dressed up for his girl's big day, that too with her favourite flower on his chest. I like how the poppy in bloom is reminiscent of his growing affection for her And the way he says her NAME is so soft , tender , like his whole demeanor changes as soon as he sees her and he goes 'Elphaba' in that soft tender tone. And omg..him gazing at her like her face is all the stars in a night sky ..like the man is so down bad for her , it's like LITERALLY nothing ( no one ) exists to him except her ... And the way they stare each other down in this scene takes me back to Kate/Anthony days..atleast Kanthony TRIED to not be obvious ( not very successfully might I add )....but these two don't even TRY .. lol... I love how her acknowledging that she thinks about THAT day , same as him, puts his mind at ease , and he nods and smiles a little , a smile reserved just for her...omg .the yearning and the smitten looks..and when she tucks away the poppy , safely in her bag , like it's the most special thing... . This scene really is everything ...
Also ... This frame right here is the literal personification of 🩷 💙 💚 atleast that's what I believe ...so to me , blue is Fiyero and Fiyero is blue
a/n: idk what this is, it’s smut but it was written in pieces and idk if it’s any good, sorry y’all i’m all over the fucking place rn
@slutforsexyseabass
check out my other writings (more coherent writings)
Red wine flowed from your glass into your mouth, swirling enticingly as you gulped down the sweet liquid. You followed the pleasant burn of it as it slipped down your throat.
“I’m not kidding.” Natasha leaned forward, topping off her own glass with more of Tony’s expensive wine.
“And he just kept going?” Wanda’s mouth dropped open as Natasha giggled while nodding in ascent to her question.
“Had my legs shaking, I swear.” She held up three fingers, “Scout’s honor.”
You laughed, digging your hand into the bowl of Cheetos tucked between your legs. Wanda shook her head, seemingly not believing what Natasha was telling her.
pairing: bartender!bucky barnes x reader | 5.9k words
warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), frosting play, body worship, power exchange vibes, dirty talk, oral sex, wall sex, slight praise kink, slight possessive!Bucky, messy mouth kink
summary: The bar’s holiday lights glow like enchanted stars when Bucky makes you a bet too tempting to ignore. Winning means claiming him as your gingerbread “canvas”—and once you taste sugar on his skin, the mysterious, magnetic pull between you becomes impossible to deny.
authors note: my take on the lovely @chateaubarnes 12 days of Christmas! i had gingerbread houses and (un)fortunately this fic is 2% gingerbread and 98% sex😭 writing this fic was an absolute ride but i love everything about it and hope you do too; merry christmas you sluts🤍
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The bar looks like Christmas threw up in it.
In the best way.
Twinkle lights are strung in messy zigzags across the ceiling, colored bulbs blinking over every booth. Someone duct-taped tinsel to the dartboard. The jukebox alternates between classic rock and overly-cheerful holiday covers. And the long wooden bar itself is buried beneath mixing bowls, bags of candy, plastic piping bags, and at least three different shades of sticky frosting.
And in the middle of it all is Bucky Barnes.
Your favorite bartender.
He’s behind the bar like always, sleeves rolled to his elbows, black Henley clinging to his chest and shoulders as he shakes off a tray of freshly washed shot glasses. Someone stuck felt reindeer antlers on his head an hour ago and he still hasn’t bothered to take them off. They’re crooked, clashing badly with his resting-bastard-face, and for some reason that just makes it all better.
“Alright, sugar gremlins,” he calls over the roar of conversation, voice warm and rough enough to slide right down your spine. “Gingerbread entries are due in five. If you’re not gluing your shit together by now, it’s not gonna stand.”
The crowd laughs. Someone boos. A gummy gumdrop bounces off the bar near his hand.
Your team has somehow taken over the entire corner booth, bowls of royal icing balanced between beer bottles, gumdrops rolling dangerously close to the edge, and the smell of cinnamon so strong it feels like you’re inhaling Christmas.
“Hand me the gumdrops,” your friend Kara says, wrist-deep in a bowl of icing that looks like Elmer’s glue. “No—the red ones. Red is architectural.”
You blink. “That’s not…how that works.”
“Red. Is. Architectural.”
You pass them over, because arguing with Kara during a craft project is how people lose fingers. Across the room, the jukebox switches to an aggressively cheerful jingle-bell remix.
You’re mid-reach for a peppermint disc when you feel it—the unmistakable prickle of someone watching you.
You look up.
Bucky’s behind the bar, drying a pint glass with that battered white cloth he loves like it’s unionized. He’s not even pretending to look away. His eyes are locked on you—steady, warm, and a little dangerous.
The second your gazes meet, he smirks.
Slow. Crooked. Wrong in all the right ways.
Your fingertips fumble the peppermint. It drops into the bowl with a wet plop.
“Oh my GOD,” Kara hisses. “He’s undressing you with his eyes.”
“He is not,” you say, trying for nonchalant even as your pulse tries to escape your body.
“Babe,” she says. “He is licking you from across the room.”
Mark leans over the icing bowl like a gossip goblin. “He gives the rest of us neutral bartender face. You? You get sex-eyes.”
“We are not calling it that—”
Mark cups his hands dramatically around his mouth and whispers, “SEX. EYES.”
“Stop,” you hiss, cheeks blazing.
But when you risk another glance, Bucky’s gaze is already back on you, like he never looked away.
Kara pokes your ribs. “Go ask him for more candy. Or a drink. Or his phone number.”
“We’re literally building gingerbread houses.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Build your future.”
“You’re insane.”
“You’re horny.”
Before you can respond, a gumdrop sails past your shoulder, ricochets off a barstool, and lands by Bucky’s hand.
He picks it up delicately—as if assessing a murder weapon—before slowly lifting his eyes to yours.
You mouth sorry.
He mouths aim better.
Your friends detonate.
“He’s INTO you,” Kara whisper-screeches.
“He doesn’t flirt,” Mark adds. “He grunts. And pours whiskey. YOU get flirting.”
You roll your eyes, failing miserably to hide your smile.
Then, like a perfectly timed movie cue, Bucky finally plucks the crooked antlers off his head and tosses them onto the bar. When he glances back at you, he tilts his chin toward your gingerbread catastrophe and mouths:
Nice buttress.
Heat floods through you.
“Okay, I’m going to get—something,” you mumble.
“Get HIS—something!” Kara yells.
You whirl to glare at her, but when you turn back, Bucky’s already sauntering toward your end of the bar, towel slung over his shoulder, confidence rolling off him like heat.
Kara squeaks. Mark fans himself with a paper plate.
Bucky stops at your table, leaning down slightly—close enough that you catch the warm, clove-and-whiskey scent of him.
“Well, well,” he drawls. “If it isn’t my favorite disaster artist.”
You grin, chin tilting up, because you can feel your friends watching the way you and Bucky orbit each other, and you’ll be damned if you give them the satisfaction of seeing you melt on the spot. Even if—you know—you kind of are.
“Bold words from a man wearing Rudolph’s horns,” you shoot back.
He plants a hand on the bar and leans toward you, eyes a deep, impossible blue under the warm lights. You smell soap and whiskey and the faint spice of whatever cologne he always wears in winter.
“Careful, doll,” he murmurs. “Keep talkin’ like that and I’ll disqualify your little ginger tragedy out of spite.”
“Our ginger tragedy is a masterpiece,” you protest, gesturing dramatically. “We added buttresses.”
Bucky raises his brows. “You do know what a buttress is?”
“It’s an architectural support,” you say, then add, “Also the thing I’ll be shaking in your general direction when we win.”
Behind you, your friends snort. One of them whispers, “Just fuck him already,” not nearly quietly enough.
Color climbs your neck. Bucky’s gaze flicks from your face to your mouth and back again, fingers flexing against the wood.
He straightens, rolling his shoulders. The movement pulls the Henley taut over his stomach, and your brain goes briefly, blissfully, blank.
“Oh, we’re absolutely going to win,” you say, stubborn. “I’ve been mainlining holiday baking shows for weeks. I was built for this.”
“Sure you were,” he teases. “What do I get if you lose?”
You blink. “If I lose?”
“Yeah.” He props his elbows on the bar, leaning in again, voice dropping into that register that always makes your knees a little unreliable. “You were the one shit-talking my antlers, sweetheart. Stakes, remember those?”
Your stomach flips. The bar noise fades into a fuzzy background hum. He’s flirting, you think, or at least toeing the line with that easy confidence he wears like his own brand of cologne.
“So what do you want?” you ask, lofting your chin, trying to sound like you’re not buzzing under your skin.
He considers you for a moment, eyes flicking down the line of your body and back to your face. The look is quick, assessing, but it leaves a warm trail along every inch of skin it touches.
“Hmm.” He taps his fingers on the bar. “If your team loses, you drink whatever gross holiday special I mix up without complaining.”
“Without complaining?” you echo, horrified. “You put pickles in the Bloody Marys, Bucky.”
“And people love me for it.”
“People are sick.”
“You still come here three times a week,” he points out.
“Touché.”
He smiles, small and knowing, and your heart stumbles in your chest.
“Fine,” you say. “If I lose, I’ll drink whatever abomination you slide my way. No complaints.”
“And if you win?” he asks, lazy.
You should say something simple. A free drink, maybe. A comped tab. A round of shots for your table.
But the words catch on your tongue, and a different image flashes in your mind, unbidden. Bucky behind the bar, sweat beading at his temple. The flex of his forearms as he pours. The way his shirt rides up when he reaches for a bottle on the high shelf, exposing a strip of tanned skin and—the one time you caught a glimpse—a dark line of ink disappearing under his waistband.
You swallow, heat creeping lower.
“If I win…” You let the words hang for a beat, watching his face. His attention sharpens, eyes narrowing slightly like he knows you’re about to say something dangerous. The thrill of it settles in your chest.
“If I win,” you repeat, “I want to decorate you.”
That gets his attention.
One brow climbs. “Decorate me,” he repeats flatly.
“Like a gingerbread man,” you clarify, doing your best to look innocent. “Frosting. Candy. The whole thing. We’ve got extra icing.”
The corner of his mouth tugs. “You wanna frost me, doll?”
“Are you scared?” you shoot back, pulse pounding in your throat. “Afraid of a little holiday spirit?”
Behind you, your friends are losing their minds. Someone claps a hand over their own mouth to stifle a squeal. Another mutters, “Oh my god, she’s actually doing this.”
Bucky’s gaze drops to your lips again. His tongue flicks out briefly to wet his own, and your thighs clench.
“Scared?” he murmurs. “Of you?”
The way he says it—low, rough, almost affectionate—turns your bones to jelly.
He leans over the bar until his face is inches from yours, until you can feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek.
“You’re on,” he says quietly. “You win, you can…decorate me.” His smile edges into something sharper, darker. “However you want.”
Your heart does something stupid and acrobatic in your chest.
“Deal,” you whisper.
He straightens, claps his hands once, and raises his voice. “Three minutes, bakers! Then I’m comin’ around and taking bribes—uh, I mean, judging.”
The bar erupts into chaos.
You win.
By some miracle of sugar and spite, your leaning tower of gingerbread survives long enough for Bucky to walk around, pretend to make notes on a cocktail napkin, and dramatically announce your team as the winner.
“Mostly,” he says, one brow cocked as he eyes the peppermint buttresses, “because this architectural monstrosity has more personality than the rest of you put together.”
Your table erupts into cheers. There’s hugging and high-fiving. Someone shoves a candy cane into your hand like a victory flag.
Bucky meets your gaze over the mess, something hot and electric flickering there.
“Congrats, doll,” he says loud enough for the nearby crowd to hear. “Guess I owe you a prize.”
Heat spikes under your skin. You try to keep your voice steady. “I believe we had a deal, Barnes.”
“Yeah, we did.” He tosses the napkin onto the bar, nodding toward the door marked “Staff Only” at the end. “Give me ten to close out a few tabs. Then you can do your worst.”
The words punch straight through you. Your friends push you, whispering, “Go, go, go,” like a pack of devils on your shoulders.
You grab a half-used piping bag of white frosting from the carnage, ignoring their wolf whistles, and make your way down the bar. Bucky glances up as you pass, smirks, and flicks his gaze to the door again.
You slip behind the “Staff Only” sign, heart pounding so hard you feel it in your teeth.
The back hallway is narrow and dim, lit by a single buzzing fluorescent light. There’s the office, the tiny employee bathroom, the walk-in fridge. You hover in the hall, frosting bag clutched to your chest, and try not to overthink.
This is stupid, you tell yourself. It’s a joke. You’ll draw a little icing smiley face on his arm or something, and then you’ll go back out and drink eggnog until you forget the way his eyes looked when he said however you want.
The door clicks behind you.
“Thought you might bail,” Bucky’s voice rumbles.
You turn.
He’s propped the door open with his foot, making sure it latches quietly. The antlers are gone, tossed who-knows-where. He’s rolling his sleeves up higher, exposing corded forearms and veins that make your mouth go dry.
“You don’t strike me as the type to back down, though,” he adds.
You swallow, fingers digging into the cool plastic of the piping bag. “What gave it away?”
“The way you staked your entire dignity on that gingerbread house,” he says. “That was a bold move.”
You huff. “My dignity died the first time I saw you juggle martini shakers for a bachelorette party.”
He chuckles, low and rough, and the sound sends a shiver through you.
“C’mere,” he says, jerking his head toward the cramped office. “Less chance of you piping frosting on the beer inventory.”
You step past him into the tiny room. There’s barely space for the battered metal desk, a file cabinet, and a stray barstool in the corner. Holiday shift schedules are pinned to the corkboard. A little ceramic snowman someone gifted him sits by the computer monitor, its paint chipped on one edge.
Bucky shuts the door behind you with a soft click.
The air feels different suddenly. Thicker. Warmer. The dull thud of bass from the main bar filters through the wall, muffled but persistent, like your own heartbeat amplified.
You turn to face him.
He’s closer than you thought. Close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that you can see the gold flecks in the blue, the faint scruff along his jaw, the way his lips part on a slow inhale as his gaze drops to the frosting bag still clutched in your hand.
“Well?” he murmurs. “You gonna use that on me, or just squeeze it to death?”
Your face goes hot. “I’m…thinking.”
He hums. “Dangerous.”
There’s a beat of silence, heavy with everything unsaid between you for months—every lingering look, every flirt that skirted just shy of the line.
“I was kidding, you know,” you say, voice a little too fast. “We don’t have to actually—”
His expression shifts in an instant. The teasing softens into something more serious, more intent.
“You don’t wanna?” he asks quietly. “Because if you don’t want this, we walk back out there and pretend I never said shit. I mean that, sweetheart.”
The sincerity in his tone makes your chest ache.
You wet your lips, nerves and want tangling together. “And if I do want to?”
His jaw flexes. His hand comes up, slow enough that you see it coming, giving you time to step away if you want to. You don’t.
Fingers rough from years of bar work and a life you know he doesn’t talk much about curl under your chin. His thumb traces the corner of your mouth, catching on a smear of sugar you didn’t know was there.
“If you do,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours, “then I’m yours ’til you run outta frosting.”
Something in your chest drops and soars at once.
“Okay,” you whisper.
The word hangs between you like a spark catching dry tinder.
You reach up, fist clenching in the front of his Henley, and kiss him.
He meets you halfway with a low, surprised sound that goes straight between your legs. His mouth is warm and sure, years of practiced control giving way to something hungry as he presses you back against the edge of the desk.
The kiss starts sweet, almost tentative. Then his tongue slides against yours, tasting of peppermint and whiskey, and the sweetness goes up in flames.
Your hands find his shoulders, fingers digging into firm muscle as he deepens the kiss. He nips your bottom lip, catching it between his teeth before soothing the bite with his tongue, and you gasp into his mouth.
“Jesus, doll,” he mutters, breath puffing against your cheek. “You been thinkin’ about this as much as I have?”
“Probably more,” you pant, dizzy. “I’m the one who threatened you with buttresses.”
He laughs, short and rough, and dips his head to mouth along your jaw, down the line of your throat. His stubble scrapes lightly, sending sparks skittering under your skin.
Your grip tightens on the frosting bag, remembering suddenly that this started as a game.
“Wait,” you breathe.
He stills immediately, lifting his head. “You okay?”
“Yes,” you rush to say. “More than okay. I just—” You lift the bag between you. “Deal.”
The look he gives you could melt ice.
“Right,” he says, voice dropping. “Can’t go back on a deal, can I?”
You shake your head, throat dry.
His fingers find the hem of his Henley, and for a second your brain misfires entirely as he drags it up over his head in one smooth motion.
You’d suspected. You’d imagined. You’d stared at the way the shirt clung to him and fantasized a thousand times.
None of it prepared you for the reality.
He’s all hard lines and carved shadows, broad chest dusted with dark hair that narrows to a trail down his stomach. His abs are defined but not showy, the kind of strength that comes from actual work, not just mirrors and gym selfies. There’s a smear of dried frosting on one forearm where someone must’ve bumped him earlier, and a faint scar across one side of his ribs, old and pale.
There’s a tattoo, too—ink curling from the left side of his chest down toward his hip, mostly hidden still by his jeans. It makes your fingers twitch with the urge to trace it.
You must make some kind of sound, because his mouth quirks.
“Like what you see, sweetheart?”
You drag your gaze back up. “Trying to decide where to start,” you say honestly.
His laugh is low, wicked. “Then let me help you out.”
He steps back just long enough to kick the chair aside and turn, leaning his hips against the edge of the desk. His hands plant behind him, propping him up, and he spreads his legs, inviting.
“Canvas is ready,” he says, smirk softening into something oddly affectionate. “Painter’s choice.”
Heat pools low in your belly.
You step closer until you’re between his knees, the frosting bag balanced carefully in your hand. He watches you, eyes hungry, throat bobbing when you reach out with your free hand to touch.
You start at his chest, fingers skimming lightly over warm skin. His breath hitches.
“Gonna worship me with sugar, huh?” he murmurs.
“Shut up and let me decorate you,” you whisper back.
You squeeze the piping bag gently, careful not to explode it, and draw the first line.
White icing trails from one collarbone down toward the center of his chest, a slightly shaky line from your distracted hands. He watches your face, not the sugar, as you work, like he’s memorizing every expression.
Another line, mirroring the first, tracing the curve of his pec. Then a looping scallop along the edge, like the icing on a gingerbread cookie. You bite your lip, concentrating, tongue peeking out as you pipe a little swirl just above his nipple.
“Fuck,” he mutters, the word a gust of air. “You’re really—”
You glance up through your lashes. “I said shut up.”
A spark flares in his eyes at the little edge in your tone.
“Bossy,” he murmurs. “I like it.”
You add little “button” dots down the center of his chest, each one a perfect, obscene target. The frosting is cool against his heat, melting slightly on contact.
By the time you reach his stomach, your hands are steadier, your breathing is not.
You drag the tip of the bag down the valley between his abs, slow, watching the way his muscles jump under the touch. His fingers flex on the desk behind him, knuckles whitening.
“Fuck, doll,” he says softly. “You’re killin’ me.”
“You agreed to this,” you remind him, though your own voice comes out breathy.
You circle his navel with a neat ring of icing, then draw a little bow just under it, like you’re labeling a present.
Bucky huffs out a strained laugh. “That where you think the present starts?”
You meet his gaze, awareness crackling between you.
“No,” you say, and slide your hand lower, over the rough denim of his jeans, to where he’s already hard under the fabric. “I know exactly where the present starts.”
He sucks in a breath through his teeth, hips jerking just slightly into your touch.
“Needy little thing,” he mutters, voice scraping. “Can’t even finish your art project before you start pawing at my cock?”
“Maybe I’m decorating with intention,” you say, squeezing the bag again.
You trace one last straight line, this one starting from just above his waistband and curving down, disappearing behind the button of his jeans.
His jaw clenches. “You’re playin’ a dangerous game, sweetheart.”
You drop the now half-empty bag onto the desk without looking away from him.
“Good thing I like dangerous,” you murmur.
Your hands go to his belt.
He lets you, watching, pupils blown wide. When the leather slides free with a soft whisper and his jeans loosen, his hips roll, almost involuntary.
“Take it out,” he says, low and rough. “Go on. You were so cocky out there—let’s see if your mouth can keep up.”
The combination of praise and condescension sends a bolt of want through you.
You push his jeans down just enough, dragging his boxers with them. His cock springs free, thick and already flushed, resting heavy against his stomach, right along the line of melted frosting you drew.
Your mouth actually waters.
“Fuck,” you whisper before you can stop yourself.
Bucky grins, sharp and smug. “See somethin’ you like, doll?”
You shoot him a look even as you step closer, crowding between his thighs. Your fingers wrap around him, and you swear you feel his pulse jump under your touch.
He’s warm and solid in your hand, weighty enough to make your arm flex.
“You knew exactly what you were offering when you made that bet,” you murmur. “Don’t pretend you didn’t want this.”
His breath stutters when you slide your fist slowly from base to tip, thumbing at the bead of pre-come already gathering there.
“Maybe I did,” he grits out. “Maybe I wanted to see how desperate you’d get for a taste.”
Your whole body lights up at the word desperate.
“You have no idea,” you say honestly.
He does, though. You see it in the way his gaze darkens when you lean in, in the way his hand reaches up to cradle the back of your head, thumb stroking the line of your jaw.
“Look at me,” he orders.
You do, lifting your eyes to his as you lower your mouth to his chest.
The frosting is cool under your tongue. You lick along the first line you drew, slow, savoring the mix of sugar and his skin, the faint salt of sweat beneath. He groans, head tipping back.
“Fuck, that’s—” He cuts himself off with a curse when you swirl your tongue around one nipple, sucking the sugary ring away before biting down gently.
His hand tightens in your hair, not enough to hurt, just enough to hold.
“Such a good girl,” he rasps. “So fuckin’ focused on that mouth, huh? Couldn’t even wait ’til we got home—had to drag me in here and eat me like a dessert.”
Heat flares between your legs at the praise, slick pooling.
You move lower, licking each little “button” dot clean, tracing every ridge of his abs with your tongue, following the path of your own decoration. By the time you reach his navel, he’s breathing hard, fingers in your hair keeping you where he wants you.
“Can taste the sugar,” you mumble against his skin, and then, unable to stop yourself, “but you’re sweeter.”
He huffs out a laugh that sounds almost pained.
“You’re such a fuckin’ romantic,” he says, but the words come out thick with affection. “Get down there and put that mouth to work.”
You slide to your knees between his spread thighs, the floor cold even through your leggings. The angle gives you an obscene view: his cock, heavy and flushed, the white icing line glistening faintly where it trails down to brush the base.
You wrap your hand around him again, giving a slow pump, and lean in.
“Thought you were gonna make me a gingerbread man, doll,” he says through gritted teeth. “Right now I’m thinkin’ you’re just makin’ yourself a snack.”
You look up at him from under your lashes, tongue darting out to catch the bit of frosting at his base.
“Maybe I can do both,” you say, and then you flatten your tongue and lick up the length of him, slow, collecting sugar and skin in one long, obscene swipe.
He swears, loud enough that you’re glad the music out front is still blasting.
“Fuck. Keep doin’ that and I’m gonna—”
You kiss the leaking tip, tasting salt and sugar and him, then sink your mouth down over him as far as you can go.
Everything else disappears.
Your world narrows to the hot weight of him on your tongue, the stretch at the corner of your mouth, the way his hand tightens instinctively in your hair, guiding your pace. You hum around him, and his hips jerk.
“Goddamn.” His voice is rough, staring down at you with wild eyes. “Look at you. Kneelin’ on the dirty office floor just to suck my cock. You really are desperate, huh?”
You whine around him, the humiliation and heat mingling into something that makes your thighs clench. He chuckles, breathless.
“Yeah, you like that,” he says, eyes glittering. “Like bein’ my messy little gingerbread slut. All that sugar on your tongue and you still want more.”
He pushes in a little deeper, carefully, watching your face. You breathe through your nose, relax your throat, take him as far as you can. When you swallow, he curses again, head thumping back against the wall.
“Jesus, sweetheart. You’re gonna ruin me.”
His hand moves you, setting a rhythm, using your mouth like it’s something he earned. Every slide of him over your tongue sends a sharp jolt between your legs, your body stringing tighter and tighter.
He pulls you off with a wet pop when your eyes start to water, thumb brushing away the mix of saliva and frosting at the corner of your mouth.
“Open,” he orders.
You do, lips parted, tongue out, and he groans.
“Filthy,” he mutters, but he sounds awed. His thumb slides between your lips, pressing down on your tongue as he pushes your jaw gently. “You just need somethin’ in that mouth, don’t you? Can’t stand not havin’ me there.”
You moan around his thumb, sucking, eyes fluttering.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He pulls his thumb free, dragging it down your chin, smearing the mix of sugar and spit. “Get up.”
It takes a second for your knees to cooperate. When you stand, your legs tremble.
He grabs your waist, spinning you, and suddenly your back is against the wall, cold plaster seeping through your thin shirt. He cages you in with his body, one thigh pushing between yours, pinning you there.
“You good?” he asks, hand cupping your jaw, searching your eyes.
“Yes,” you breathe, voice wrecked. “God, yes.”
He grins, quick and feral, and kisses you like he’s trying to claim every ounce of air in your lungs. You taste yourself on him, taste sugar and sweat and something sharp and addictive that’s just Bucky.
His hand skims down your side, over your stomach, to the waistband of your leggings.
“Look at you,” he murmurs against your mouth. “All worked up just from suckin’ me off. You soaked for me, doll?”
You swallow, cheeks burning. “Why don’t you check?”
He chuckles. “Cheeky.”
His hand slides into your leggings, fingers cupping you through your underwear. You jerk against him, a bitten-off whimper catching in your throat.
“Fuck.” His breath hisses between his teeth. “You are soaked. I barely touched you.”
You try to glare, but your hips roll into his hand of their own accord.
“Whose fault is that?” you whisper.
“Guess I better do somethin’ about it,” he says, voice low. “Otherwise you’re gonna make a mess on my leg, and we can’t have that.”
His fingers slip under the damp fabric, finally touching you where you need it. You gasp, hand flying to his shoulder for balance as he finds your clit with sure, practiced ease.
“Bucky—”
“Yeah, that’s it,” he says, mouth at your ear. “Say my name just like that. Always imagined what you’d sound like.”
The admission makes your head spin.
He works you with ruthless precision, rubbing tight circles, dipping lower to slide two fingers into you, stretching you around the thickness. Your body clenches, desperate.
“Fuck, you’re squeezin’ me,” he groans. “Gonna feel so good on my cock.”
The thought sends you hurtling closer to the edge.
“Bucky, I’m—” you gasp.
He pulls his hand away.
You whine, actually whine, chasing the friction, and he laughs softly, the sound full of wicked satisfaction.
“So greedy,” he tsks. “You really think I’m gonna let you cum on my fingers after you just used that pretty mouth on me like that? No, sweetheart. You’re gonna cum on my cock. I owe you that much.”
You’re pretty sure your brain short-circuits.
He hooks his fingers in your leggings and underwear and yanks them down in one practiced move, leaving you bare from the waist down. The air hits your slick skin and you shiver.
“Turn around,” he orders, voice gone rough. “Hands on the wall.”
You hesitate, a flicker of nerves threading through the haze of arousal.
He notices immediately, hand warm on your hip.
“Still good?” he asks, brow furrowing. “We can stop. I mean it. We can stop and go back out there, pretend we just—”
“No,” you say quickly, surprising yourself with the certainty in your voice. “I want this. I want you.”
Something in his expression softens, just for a moment.
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
“Yeah.”
His hand squeezes your hip, reassuring. “Then get your ass on that wall, gingerbread girl.”
You huff out a breathless laugh despite how wrecked you feel, turning to brace your palms against the cool plaster. You hear the quiet crinkle of foil as he digs in his pocket, and it occurs to you dimly that of course he’d be prepared. He works in a bar. Things happen.
The sound of the condom wrapper tearing is louder than it has any right to be. Your pulse thrums in your ears.
A moment later, he’s behind you, crowding you up against the wall with the heat of his body. One hand slides along your side, fingers spreading over your stomach, anchoring you. The other wraps around himself, guiding the blunt head of his cock to your entrance.
“Relax for me,” he murmurs into your hair. “Don’t tense up. I’ve got you.”
You exhale slowly, muscles unwinding as best they can.
He pushes in.
The stretch is intense, a deep, delicious burn that makes your eyes scrunch shut. He moves slow, giving you time, every inch of him sinking into you until his hips are pressed flush against your ass.
“Fuck,” he groans, voice shredded. “You feel—Jesus, sweetheart. You’re perfect.”
You moan, pushing back, greedy for more.
“That’s it,” he says, hand sliding down to grip your hip. “Take it. Knew you would. Knew you’d be so good for me.”
He starts to move, shallow at first, letting your body adjust. Every thrust grinds his pelvis against your ass, the angle just right to drag him along that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.
The hand on your stomach slides down, fingers finding your clit again, circling in time with his hips.
You keen, fingers clawing at the plaster.
“Listen to you,” he purrs, the words a mix of praise and mockery. “You hear yourself, doll? Whinin’ for it like you didn’t drag me in here. Like you didn’t beg me with those eyes all fuckin’ night.”
“Bucky—”
He sinks his teeth into your shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make you gasp.
“You wanted this,” he says against your skin. “Didn’t you? Wanted me to stuff your mouth, then fuck you stupid against a wall while everyone out there sings goddamn Jingle Bell Rock.”
Your laugh breaks on a moan.
“Yes,” you gasp. “Fuck—yes, I wanted this, I wanted you—”
His breath catches. His thrusts go harder, deeper, the desk behind him rattling with each snap of his hips.
“Good girl,” he growls, the words hot against your neck. “That’s my good girl. Sayin’ what she wants.”
The praise hits you like a physical thing.
You can feel yourself spiraling, the coil in your belly winding tighter and tighter. Every friction of his cock, every swipe of his fingers, every filthy word pushes you closer.
“Bucky, I’m…fuck, I’m close.”
“Yeah?” he pants. “Already? Barely got started, sweetheart.”
His pace doesn’t slow, though. If anything, it gets more urgent, more desperate.
“You gonna cum for me?” he asks. “Gonna make a mess all over my cock like a good little gingerbread slut?”
You whimper, the mix of degradation and praise lighting up every nerve.
“Yes,” you cry. “Yes, please, please—”
“That’s it,” he says, voice rough with pleasure. “Beg for it. Beg me to let you cum.”
“Please,” you rasp, not even caring how wrecked you sound. “Please, Bucky, I need it—need you—need to cum, please, please—”
His fingers speed up on your clit.
“Cum for me,” he orders, voice a growl. “Now.”
You shatter.
Your orgasm rips through you like a wave, tearing a sharp cry from your throat. Your legs shake, whole body clenching around him, pleasure burning white-hot behind your eyes.
He curses, burying himself deep, hips grinding against you as he chases his own release. You feel his rhythm stutter, hear the raw sound he makes as he cums, the tension in his body snapping.
For a few seconds, all you can hear is your own ragged breathing and the muffled thump of music through the wall.
Then, slowly, the world slides back into focus.
He eases himself from between your legs, hand smoothing over your hip, your stomach, up your ribs as if to soothe every inch of overstimulated skin.
“You okay?” he asks softly, still catching his breath.
You nod, forehead pressed to the wall. “Yeah. I’m…wow.”
He laughs, quiet and disbelieving.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Wow.”
He pulls out gently, one hand steady on your hip, and you feel the slide of the condom as he takes care of it quickly. A moment later, he’s tucking you into his chest, turning you so your back is against the wall and he’s the one holding you up.
“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing damp hair from your face. “You with me?”
You look up at him, taking in the flushed cheeks, the softened eyes, the smear of frosting still clinging stubbornly above his heart.
“I decorated you,” you say faintly.
He huffs. “Yeah, you did. Didn’t quite expect the…full body shot experience, but I’m not complainin’.”
You giggle, the sound shaky but genuine.
“Gingerbread body shot,” you correct. “There was a theme.”
“And you committed to it,” he says gravely. His thumb traces your lower lip, gently rubbing away some dried sugar. “Gonna be thinkin’ about you on your knees with frosting on your tongue for the rest of my natural life, doll.”
Heat flares in your cheeks again. “Could be worse things to be remembered for.”
His expression softens.
“Oh, I got plenty of other reasons to remember you for,” he says, voice dropping. “But that one’s definitely up there.”
The tenderness in his gaze makes something ache in your chest.
“So,” you say slowly. “Is this…a one-time ‘I won the gingerbread contest’ thing? Or…”
He snorts. “Sweetheart, you think I’ve been flirtin’ with you for months just to bang it out once in the office next to the sticky note budget?”
Your heart stutters. “Months?”
“I’m a bartender,” he says. “My job’s to notice things. Like the fact you stay an extra hour on nights I work, and you always sit where I can see you. Or that you only ever complain about my pickle Bloody Marys ’cause you like watchin’ me argue with you.”
You open your mouth. Close it. “Okay, that’s fair.”
He leans in and kisses you again, softer this time, sweet and slow. No sugar. Just him.
When he pulls back, there’s a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“How about this,” he says. “We clean up, you let me make you a drink that doesn’t involve pickles or gingerbread, and then—if you’re still interested—we start figurin’ out what other holiday traditions we wanna corrupt together.”
Your chest feels too small for your heart all of a sudden.
“Yeah,” you say, breathless and stupidly happy. “I think I could be very interested in that.”
“Thought so,” he says, smug and fond all at once.
He reaches past you to grab the discarded frosting bag from the desk, inspecting it with a mock-critical eye.
“Gonna have to order more of this,” he muses. “We’re runnin’ low.”
You raise a brow. “Planning on more body shots, Barnes?”
His gaze slides back to you, hot and promising.
“With you?” he says. “Every goddamn holiday, doll.”
He tosses the bag in the trash, pulls his shirt back on, and offers you his hand.
You take it.
Out in the bar, someone starts up a wildly off-key rendition of “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” Bucky squeezes your fingers, leans down to murmur in your ear as he opens the office door.
“For the record,” he says, “all I want for Christmas is you covered in frosting again.”
You laugh, warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the lingering afterglow.
“Careful,” you say. “You keep tempting a girl like that, and she might make good on it.”
He grins, that slow, devastating smile that started this whole mess.
“Sweetheart,” he says, guiding you back into the glow of the twinkle-lit bar, “that’s exactly what I’m countin’ on.”
Last he was seen was 12/12 in NYC. I’m doubtful he’s going to start filming anything this year. /
I think so too just enjoying new year atmosphere before working IG 👀 And his long hair, beard OMG HE LOOKS SO FINEEE do we have any close up photos of his beautiful face??? 💙
Kate was halfway through an explanation on departmental grant ethics for an upcoming lecture when Anthony leaned back in his chair and said, “It’s warm in here, isn’t it?”
It wasn’t.
It was the same temperature it always was—precisely controlled, mildly uncomfortable, blessedly unremarkable.
Until he reached behind his head to pull the collar of his cardigan over his neck.
“Do you mind if I—?” he asked, already pulling it off.
Kate’s pen stalled mid-sentence. “Not at all,” she said tightly.
The fabric slid over his shoulders, catching briefly on the plain white shirt he had on underneath before he tugged it free, revealing just enough of his audaciously defined abdomen to send a rush of heat rising in Kate’s own face.
Anthony clocked her reaction. Of course he did.
“You were saying something about integrity?” he smiled, tugging the T-shirt back into place and setting the cardigan on the table beside him.
“Data integrity,” she swallowed, forcing her attention back to the notes in front of her. Her voice was steady enough—if one ignored the fact that she was underlining the same sentence for the third time. “Which I’m beginning to suspect you’re actively trying to corrupt.”
Anthony leaned forward, elbows on his knees, that infuriating half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Just trying to keep the discussion lively.”
“We’re prepping for a lecture, not a… burlesque show,” she muttered, still not looking up.
He laughed softly, the unguarded kind that made every hair on the back of her neck stand at attention. “You wound me, Dr. Sharma.”
“I should hope so,” she said, gathering her papers as if sheer efficiency could shield her. “Because your tactics are unprofessional and, frankly, transparent.”
“My tactics?” he echoed, the word rolling off his tongue like a challenge.
Kate finally looked up, meaning to glare—and made the critical mistake of meeting his eyes.
He was smirking. Smirking.
“I thought we already decided playing dumb was a bad look on you?” she said, trying to summon her spine from wherever it had gone.
“Based on the way you keep biting your lip, I’d say it’s one you’re starting to come around to.” He lifted a brow in challenge, already gathering his papers into his satchel as he stood.
Kate capped her pen with unnecessary force. “Your arrogance is astounding.”
“And your composure is slipping.”
“It is not.”
He gestured at the papers in front of her. “You just wrote the word ‘abs’ in your margin notes.”
Kate glanced down—then went very still.
“It’s an abbreviation,” she willed her voice to steady.
“For?”
Kate was quiet for a beat too long. The smirk on Anthony’s face only grew.
“Abs—outely,” Kate said at last, drawing the word out.
“Of course,” he said, already halfway to the door. “Well, I have a lecture to lead. Though for the record—if this is how flustered you get over a cardigan, I can’t wait to see your reaction when I wear a vest.”
The door closed before she could throw her pen.
There's probably a full one-shot coming because I have a problem and can't control myself 🫣.
I wasn't wrong. You can read it on AO3 here.
Currently at Disney with my family and cannot stop thinking about what a Disney vacation would have looked like for Anthony and Kate.
It all would have started innocently enough.
“What if we took Neddy to Disney?” Kate had asked as she scrolled on her phone.
Anthony blinked over the top of his laptop, suspicious. “Paris?”
“Or the U.S.”
He frowned like she’d suggested they vacation on the moon. “Kate, that seems like…a lot of work to see a stranger dressed up like a mouse.”
Kate just sighed. “But Neddy wouldn’t see it that way. Just think about it.”
And that was it.
That was the moment the seed was planted.
Anthony began “light research,” a phrase which quickly lost all meaning.
There were tabs.
There were spreadsheets.
There was a color-coded document titled Optimal Touring Strategy for Families With Small Children: Magic Kingdom Edition.
Kate had walked into the office one morning to find him watching a 47-minute YouTube breakdown of Lightening Lane rules with the intensity of a man preparing for war.
A week later, he burst into the sitting room like he’d discovered fire. “Kate. Did you know you can pilot the Millennium Falcon?”
She hadn’t even looked up from her grading. “I don’t know what that means.”
“The fastest hunk of junk in the galaxy?” Anthony tired and failed to hide the stricken look on his face.
Kate finally looked up from the paper in front of her. “Are you feeling alright?”
“At Disney World,” he sighed, offended on behalf of the Galaxy. “You can pilot the Millennium Falcon. From Star Wars.”
“Ah,” she tried and failed to hide her smile behind her mug. “So you’re coming around to the idea?”
“We should go in January,” he’d said immediately. “Weather is ideal. Crowds moderate. I’ve run the numbers.”
“You…ran numbers?”
“Of course I did. Also—” He’d turned his phone around to show her a Pinterest board full of carefully curated family outfit ideas. “Matching shirts.”
Kate had laughed so hard she snorted. “Anthony Bridgerton, are you planning outfits?”
“If we’re going to do this,” he’d said with absolute sincerity, “then we are going to do it correctly.”
Kate just shook her head, utterly gone for this man. “Okay,” she replied dropping a kiss to his cheek. “Just loop me in on our plans.”
And that was that.
(Likely a follow up drabble coming because my littles are surviving on stroller naps, and I’m more than content to just sit on a bench and people watch ❤️)
Summary: Trunk-or-Treat with the Twins at their preschool.
Warnings: Bullying, Parental stress. Please let me know if I missed any!
A/N: Reader is female. No other physical descriptors used.
Previous
Series Masterlist; Tech Tuesdays Masterlist
"I still think we should get to be Galadriel and Celeborn," Jake pouts. "Galadriel was a straight up badass, just like you! And Celeborn was well known to have been lucky to be her husband, just like I am with you."
You smile fondly at your husband, feeling shy from all the praise. "Yes, but, as far as we know, Elves didn't have facial hair. If you were dressed up as Celeborn, you'd have to shave! And you know how much I love that goatee of yours."
Jake wraps his arms around you and nuzzles your shoulder with his goatee. "Fine. But why can't we be Beren and Luthien? Those two were so much more in love and badass than Aragorn and Arwen. Luthien kicked Sauron's ass!"
"With the help of Huan," you snort. "Besides, probably no one at the trunk-or-treat event is going to know who Beren and Luthien are. Best go as Aragorn and Arwen with our two little Hobbit toddlers."
"Fine, but my argument remains valid," he stated. "You deserve to be seen for the amazing, incredibly talented angel of mercy and badassery that you are."
"At least you'll get to be seen as the brave, valiant, intelligent, gentle king you are," you giggle. "Everyone knows Aragorn is the coolest."
"As cool as a human king in the third age can be," Jake huffs.
"Would you rather go as Gandalf?" you tease. "Maybe we can get you a white horse plushie you can call 'Shadowfax'."
"Only if it would be less work for you," Jake coos with a kiss to your neck. "No costume is worth your sanity or health."
"Pretty sure sanity went out the window when the twins were born."
Jake gently turns you to look at him. "You know what I mean. You're the most important person in my life, my Sunshine, and I don't ever want to make you feel like you need to overwork yourself."
"I promise it's just trying to find my rhythm again," you reassure, wrapping your arms around him. "Going from non-stop taking care of the kids to having some time to myself is...it's an adjustment. But I'll get there. It's another reason I want to do the trunk-or-treating at the pre-school, a chance to make friends with other parents."
Jake nods in understanding. "The D&D group is nice, but it can't be your everything."
"Thank you for understanding."
He kisses the tip of your nose and you giggle. "Just let me know how I can help."
The night of the event has your little family setting up in the school's parking lot. You're happy to see how many other families got into the spirit! While there are several cars with just a few Halloween decorations, there are even more that have themes! One woman, Janis, even setup a "Free Samples" station modeled after Costco! Another woman, Sarah, has a kiddie pool set up with toys attached to magnets so the kids can go fishing for their prizes. There's a lot of laughs and adults ooh'ing and aaah'ing all the costumes.
Even you and Jake are having fun talking with the other parents. Sarah, whose setup is next to yours, is happy to talk with Jake about fishing. It's a hobby you know he hasn't been able to partake in for quite a while. But maybe you and Sarah can work something out now that all of your kids are old enough for such things?
Your watching the small crowd, keeping an eye on the twins as they go about, and you see another of the kids reach into Luke's bag.
Immediately your walking towards your children to help them but Luke's cries of "No!" and Leia's pushing of said thief, draws attention quicker than you can walk.
"Don't you touch him!" one of the mothers shrieks as she stomps towards Leia.
You're guessing she's the mother of the kid stealing Luke's candy. Earlier Janis had said her name was Staci "with an i" and warned you she could be a lot. Certain there's a peaceful way to settle this, you step between her and Leia, but the other woman isn't having it.
"Your child needs to apologize to my Billy!" she yells at you.
"I agree, she should apologize for shoving your son. But your son also needs to apologize for stealing from my son's candy."
"No he doesn't! My little Billy is a free spirit! He's shouldn't have to apologize for expressing himself."
Your eyes widen at that. "Then my little Leia shouldn't have to apologize for expressing herself. She was protecting her brother and 'expressing' to Billy that she's upset with how he acted."
"No," she intones. "Billy didn't hurt your kids. Your daughter hurt Billy. She needs to apologize!"
"Your son hurt my son by stealing his candy."
She rolls her eyes. "You have no proof."
"She's got several eye witnesses," one of the other parents chimes in. "Your son's been a real pain to the other kids."
"He's a bully!" Leia fumes.
"You're all ganging up on my sweet baby boy!" Staci huffs. At that moment Billy starts crying so she grabs him and his bag of candy. "I'll see you all in court!" she vows before stomping off.
You turn around to comfort your twins to find Jake is already crouched down, helping them pick up their candy, reassuring them that they were okay. Your heart melts and you kneel down and give them all a big hug.
Some of the other parents ask if you're going to be okay. You and Jake reassure them all that the kids are okay, as evidenced by Luke asking if he can go fishing for another prize.
"Okay, folks, shows over," Sarah calls out. "Let's get these kids back on track to having a fun night." Her call is answered by a loud round of applause and cheers as parents go back to encouraging their kids, reassuring them that everything is okay.
It's not uncommon for you and Jake to get intimate when you both know the kids are sound asleep for the night, but tonight he's extra handsy. Not that you're complaining. His hands have always felt so good. But you're both still in full costume and you don't want to risk anything being torn or ruined.
"Jake," you breathily plead. "Jake, costumes off, please."
"Sorry, sorry. Can't help myself. You were so beautiful, so mighty, so angelic tonight. You were truly Galadriel incarnate!" Jake kneels in front of you. "I am but a mortal man. How can I resist such magnificence?"
You can't stop the giggle that comes out as your face heats up. Not because of how silly he's being, but because you know he's in earnest about it. He makes you feel so beautiful, like you actually are an angel, or an Elven queen.
Leaning down, you frame his face with your hands and give his beautifully pink lips a gentle kiss. "And how can I deny such an ardent admirer? Especially when he already has my heart?"
Just As I Awake
Manifest Pain at the Core of Pleasure
I'm Not the Savior You Long For
Break Me Apart
Make A Good Girl Bad
Eyes of a Predator
Beneath it All
Can i request for an angst…like bucky and the reader are fighting and the fight went heated and messed up that bucky accidentally snapped or shouted at the reader and the reader is now scared😔
Didn’t Mean To Scare You » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier
Pairings: Boyfriend!Bucky Barnes x Girlfriend!Reader
Summary: You get scared when Bucky accidentally snaps at you.
Warnings: Angst, Fluff, language, panic attack, crying, kissing, pet names
A/N: Thank you for the lovely request, anon🩵
Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.
Header made by my friend🩵 / divider made by me
GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator.
You and Bucky don’t remember how this fight started. You two don’t remember who started it. For all you two know is that whatever the hell you and Bucky are fighting about is probably stupid.
“It’s stupid is what it is, Bucky! You just can’t do something like that!” You say.
“It’s not stupid if I’m trying to protect you!” Bucky says.
“And that involves causing a scene in public?!” You asked.
“Is that what you think? I embarrassed you? Like you weren’t part of that little scene you claimed I caused! All I’m doing is protecting you! That’s not stupid!” He yells.
Not only did Bucky’s words cut you like a knife, he scared you when he snapped at you. He has never had a reason to yell at you. This is the first time he’s ever yelled at you. You stood there with teary eyes and your mouth agape. Bucky didn’t even realize that he snapped at you until a short moment after.
“Y/N, I-” His words fade away when he sees you back away from him when he approaches you. “Are you- Are you scared of me?” He asks.
You didn’t dare say a word. You ran out of the living room and went to yours and his bedroom, slamming the door behind you. You leaned against the door and covered your mouth as you began to have a panic attack. You slide down the door and sat on the bedroom floor. Tears began to stream down your face. Meanwhile, Bucky is in the living room, thinking about how he just yelled at you.
“God damn it!” Bucky yells, frustrated with himself.
You flinched when you heard him yell. You’re not scared of him. You just got scared when he yelled. Seeing you get scared made Bucky think that you’re going to leave him.
“She’s going to leave me now.” Bucky says to himself.
While every horrible thought was running through Bucky’s mind, you were trying to calm yourself down from the panic attack you just had. You took some deep breaths to get your breathing under control.
“Ok…” You breathed. “I’m fine. I’m sure he didn’t mean to yell. The fight just got heated is all. There no reason to be scared.” You say to yourself.
While you were calming yourself down, you got startled when Bucky knocked on the bedroom door. A yelp left your mouth.
“Doll?” Bucky says in a shaky voice.
You stayed quiet. Even though you know Bucky didn’t mean to snap at you, you’re not ready to talk to him yet.
“Doll, please.” He says, his voice cracking.
You continue to stay quiet. Bucky sighs and leans his forehead against the bedroom door for a moment before sitting on the floor and leaning his back against the wall.
“I’ll be right here if you need anything, doll.” He says.
You continue to sit on the floor with your back against the door. You weren’t sure how long you were sitting there though. Bucky scrambles to stand up when he heard you moving on the other side of the door. When you opened the door to walk out of the bedroom, you bumped into Bucky. You took a couple steps and looked up at him.
“I am so sorry for yelling at you. I didn’t mean to make you scared of me.” Bucky apologizes, his voice cracking.
“I’m not scared of you, Bucky.” You say.
“You’re not?” He asks.
“No. I just got scared when you snapped, because you’ve never snapped at me before and I wasn’t expecting that.” You say.
“I’m sorry.” He apologizes again.
You got closer to him and reached up to cup his bearded cheeks. Bucky gazes deeply in your eyes.
“I’m not scared of you.” You say again, but softly this time.
“I’m sorry.” He apologizes once more.
“I know you are, baby.” You say softly.
“I love you so much, babydoll.” He almost whispers.
“I love you too, sweetie.” You whispered, kissing him passionately.
